


The Afterlife

by ArwenKenobi



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Decisions, Domestic, Injury Recovery, Introspection, M/M, Murder, Pining, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Separation, Slow Burn, Will sorts everything out, description of violence, some gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-07-18 09:07:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7308727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArwenKenobi/pseuds/ArwenKenobi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are certain precautions to take and assurances to be made for our continued liberty and those must primarily be settled in person, I’m afraid. I do not expect to be absent long but I cannot give you an approximation of how long I shall be gone either."</p><p>Or: Yet another post-”Wrath of the Lamb” fic</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**_“It may be the wrong decision but fuck it, it’s mine” - House of Leaves (Mark Z. Danielewski)_ **

  
  
  


His classroom is as he left it.

Before he gets started he takes a walk around. His things are all there waiting for him. Laptop with slideshow queued up, notes, water, glasses. He doesn’t reach for them. The floor and carpet feel the same, just as well worn, just as dirt like. The room appears to be full and empty all at once but it’s hard to see details or faces and he knows it’s not because he’s not wearing his glasses. He walks his usual circuit at the bottom of the pit, taking in the walls , the seats, and the people he can’t quite see. Many a teacher has strolled the same loop around the room, looked up at an ever changing group of faces, and imparted what wisdom or information that they could.

Will has always considered this room his. He requested it without fail every semester and no one ever fought him on it. Most of the other instructors didn’t like it. Something about the acoustics and the finicky AV requirements. The darkness too. The lights even at full strength still made the room look more like a cave than a lecture hall.

Will has been afraid of many things in his life. Has done, or not done, many things out of fear. Fear of this kind of dark, discomfort with this kind of darkness, was not one of them.

“Thursday,” he says to the empty room. The date should matter, he supposes, but he finds that it doesn’t. Thursday will suffice and Thursday at least roots him somewhere in time. Time, once again, is a nebulous concept to him at the moment.

He wanders off his familiar path, adamantly not looking at the not-people as he walks up the steps to take a seat in the back. He’s never once sat in one of these seats. Not in his classroom. He finds that he does not like it and moves back to the floor. Continues where he left off.

Thursday. Thursday morning he’d woken up, had a simple breakfast alone in his motel (coffee and a bagel he remembers), and headed back to the BSHCI. He’d taken an obvious route and had entered through the front doors. For the first time, he notes, he hadn’t felt that pang of fear as he passed through the doors. There was also no fear in his step, no fear in his mind or in his voice as he spoke with Jack for the last time. Alana had already fled by this point. Will does not blame her nor does he find himself missing her then or now. She’d done what she had to do to protect her family. 

She should have known better, Will chides silently. Everyone should know better by now, should have known better well before then, but he can’t help but feel a childish glee that everyone involved in this game is so horribly and willingly blind.

He wonders for a moment whether Bedelia took his advice. He snaps back to the task at hand.

“Thursday,” he says again. Louder. Sharper. Grounding. _Your name is Will Graham and we’re starting with what you know. What you know for sure is Thursday._

He’d not seen Hannibal before he’d gotten in the back of the van with everyone else. Jack hadn’t seen him off. The van ride had been silent and uneventful before Dolarhyde had arrived on scene. This had not been part of the plan but it was something that Will had been cautiously expecting anyway. He was lucky that he hadn’t died in the roll over and twice lucky that Hannibal hadn’t decided to leave him there.

“No,” he edits, fiercely, out loud. “Luck had nothing to do with that. You know that already. Stop wasting time. Move on.”

Despite that firm admonishment he has to smile when his mind takes him to the memory of Hannibal pulling up in a police car, pushing a dead cop out of the passenger seat, and asking “going my way?” as if he was just picking him up for a date and not asking him yet another loaded question. 

Will smirks now, almost laughs, and then snaps himself back to Thursday.

The ride with just the two of them was just as uneventful as the ride in the van had been prior to the arrival of the Great Red Dragon. Hannibal had the windows down and was clearly enjoying being out in the sunshine and open air. Will on the other hand was suffering from an unpleasant headache as a result of the crash. He’d snatched a pair of sunglasses from the glove box and had leaned on his door to try and get a nap. Hannibal hadn’t let that go on for very long.

“You could be concussed, Will. Stay with me.”

Will was not happy about it but he stayed with him, silently. This had not deterred Hannibal from checking in annoyingly often to ensure Will hadn’t nodded off. He never forced Will to speak but, of course, eventually, Will had found himself participating in conversation in spite of himself before long. The whole car ride had had a very Thelma and Louise feel to it, he has to say. He is confident that he would not have stopped Hannibal had he decided to drive them off a cliff or into Mexico or whatever. 

_Thursday._ Thursday. _“Thursday”_

Then was the conversation about the eroding bluffs, Hannibal getting out of his prison jumpsuit and, much to Will’s surprise, not putting on a three piece suit. They determined that Will was in fact not concussed. This was much to Will’s annoyance but he got his revenge quickly when Hannibal found his kitchen to consist of only canned soup and canned pasta. “Can you think of a wine pairing for Chef Boyardee, Dr. Lecter?”

He couldn’t but he did have wine, of course. Will couldn’t say for sure but it appeared to be the same bottle that Will had dropped off at Hannibal’s home five years ago. He’d kept it all this time? He’d have to ask him later. Assuming he ever got that opportunity. 

In the present, whatever that is, Will sighs heavily and steps back from the screen behind him. He stands far enough away that he doesn’t have to crank his head up to see as the projector comes to life. 

Hannibal is once again shot before his eyes, Will once again wondering if Hannibal had knowingly taken a bullet for him. The Dragon sets up his camera. Hannibal looks at him again. Will remakes his decision. The Dragon stabs him in the face. Everything that follows is much like watching a ballet. Knives pulled out of flesh and stabbed into flesh again. Three predators vying for dominance.

“No.” The reprimand that leave him is one Will usually saves for the students in his classes that steadfastly refuse to accept the obvious. “Two against one. The Dragon didn’t have a chance.”

Will shuts his eyes, opens them to find himself back in that moment. The moment after he’d been stabbed for the second time and was watching the Dragon strangle Hannibal. The righteous anger that had arisen in him then almost chokes him now and along with it comes the fury, the fire, and the need to defend what was his. He stays with the memory enough to pull the knife from his chest and break into a run.

He opens his eyes again and he’s back in his empty but not empty classroom, watching the screen play back that night. He watches himself stab the Dragon. Watches Hannibal grab the ax. Watches a pack destroy the prey.

Had Dolarhyde known what awaited him he would have killed Will in his hotel room when he’d had the chance. 

Will shuts his eyes but doesn’t go anywhere this time. He just lets himself feel it again. The rightness. The righteousness. The pain. The power. All of it. The feel of Hannibal’s hand around his arm as he helped him up.

It was beautiful. All of it. Including his solution. It would be his final act of fear. 

“I decide that I as I am should not be allowed to live,” Will announces like he has thousands of times before at a myriad of crime scenes. “I cannot allow Hannibal to live either.” He paces to stand behind his desk, back to the screen. Some of the empty faces in the crowd have vague features about them that seem familiar but no one is fully so. Everyone is here though and everyone is just as unsurprised as Will himself is.

“On the other hand I very much want to live.” He gestures at the screen, uncertain whether the body of Francis Dolarhyde is displayed behind him or his and Hannibal’s embrace. It doesn’t matter; both say the same thing. “I _want_ this. I want it more than anything I have ever known and have spent years ignoring it. I will not ignore it now but I cannot let myself choose it in earnest.”

He turns around to watch with the rest of the class as the two of them fall off the edge of the world. “I throw us into the ocean, into the arms of fate. Either we perish or we thrive. What happens next is whatever was meant to happen and there will be no fight from me. This is my design.”

The lights dramatically shut off. Will stands, alone he knows, in the dark and lets out a sigh. “That was Thursday. When are we now?”

The darkness gives way to bits of noise. Waves crashing. Coughing. Footsteps crunching. _“Will.”_

“Hannibal.” He couldn’t say it outloud then so he says it now, for all the good it will do. He’d wanted to answer. Wanted to promise he would when Hannibal once again asked, begged, him to stay with him. He’s never had any option but he would stay even if he had a choice. 

He feels the ghostly sensation of a hand on his forehead, of water being gently coaxed down his throat, of arms around him. Feels the bite of the Atlantic and the blaze of a fever. The gentle tug as Hannibal stitched his face and chest. 

“What about you?” he wanted to ask then but couldn’t. He wasn’t aware at the time. How much time would Hannibal need to heal enough to move them? How many days?

How many days for them to get caught?

If Will wants to, and he very often chooses not to, he can hear the hiss of oxygen. The beep of a heart monitor. Can feel the uncomfortable, scratchy, hospital sheets.

But can also remember that he also used to hear Hannibal’s voice among that medical noise. He can’t pick out words or phrases most of the time, an odd word here and there mostly, but he does remember calm and regular assurance of who he is and where he is.

His name is Will Graham and he is in a hospital. Hannibal never says where and he never tells him how long it’s been since Thursday.

“You will wake up in your own time, I know.” He tells him as he runs fingers steadily and soothingly through his hair. “I have every faith in you, Will, but I will need to leave you for a time. I would prefer to see you before I go.”

Will wants to give him that gift. He wants to stop him from leaving. Leaving for where? Where would he be going? Were they caught? 

“If that were the case they’d hardly let him visit me, would they?” he all but snaps to the dark. If Will was Jack Crawford, or whoever was in charge of this case now, he’d send them both to separate prisons on opposite ends of the country. Bury them both in holes so deep and so far from one another that death would be a mercy.

They aren’t caught but Hannibal is leaving him. 

“I will return to you,” Hannibal’s voice promises. “If you hear nothing else you will hear this.” A hand tightens around his own. A pair of lips brushes his forehead. “I will return to you,” he whispers softly but firmly into his ear.

He finds himself back in his classroom once the lips leave. This classroom had been Will’s home for years before Jack Crawford had walked into his class and ushered Hannibal Lecter into his life. He hasn’t seen it in three years but he does feel a fondness for it. He’d been happy, as much as he’d been capable of at the time, and he does hope to find himself in front of a class again one day.

Just not this one.

He turns away from the classroom and walks toward the door. He shuts it firmly behind him as he leaves and does not look back.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early update because long weekend. Happy Canada Day to my fellow Canadians and Happy Independence Day to my American peeps :)

To say this has been an eventful week is the understatement of the century. When it seems that the lesser miracle is surviving a cosmic coin toss off a fifty foot plunge into freezing cold water there is definitely something to be said about the state of the universe. Whether that’s a positive thing or not is something Will finds himself not caring about. The chance was there to kill them both and it was hardly his fault that the universe had dropped the ball on that.

They’d both lived. Hannibal had had to resuscitate him but the fact that he’d come back remained. He’d wanted to. He knows that for certain where so much is hazy.

Friday through Saturday was spent in a vacant summer home on the coast not too far from the hideaway where they’d arranged to meet Dolarhyde. Their wounds had been cared for and most of Hannibal’s time had been spent resting and watching over Will. Will had spent most of this time unconscious.

Sunday through Monday brought two things: a move from the summer house to one of Hannibal’s boltholes and the mild fever that Will had developed becoming a major one. The move from the summer home had been a gamble but Hannibal hadn’t felt it wise to stay so close to where there was an active search for them going on. Will doesn’t know where that was both because he’d been alternating between confused and comatose at the time and because no one has decided to tell him. “You may need it again someday,” he’s told. 

“Great. Thanks,” he grumbles. His voice is still a bit rough but it’s getting better. At least he can open his mouth at all and it doesn’t feel like fire when he does anymore either. It does sting to smile though but fortunately he isn’t given much occasion to do that.

He’s currently in France, or at least he assumes he’s in France somewhere given the language people are speaking around him and on TV. Again, he’s not being told anything. His fever had spiked into levels that Hannibal was not able to deal with on his own so he’d somehow, _somehow_ , gotten the pair of them out of the country and into a private hospital where apparently everyone is totally oblivious the fact that he’s a wanted man. Or being paid very well to be. This decision was apparently made early Tuesday morning and he’s been here for a week now, only been awake for three of those days. No one is calling him by name but he’s sure Will Graham isn’t what’s written on his chart. Not that he’s seen one.

All the staff members he sees around either are completely silent or they speak furiously fast French. Probably on purpose. Will’s French is more than a little rusty since leaving Louisiana but he usually can understand the language when he hears it. When people aren’t speaking at warp ten, that is. What he does catch isn’t useful; all important conversation seems to be happening well out of his earshot. Only one doctor, LaVictoire, actually speaks to him at all, in English, and he only tells him how he’s progressing, which is quite well apparently now that the fever and infection from his shoulder wound is out of the way.

That shoulder is an amazingly striking shade of red still, even with the stitches having been there for some time, and he’s told it had looked far worse. It’s fading, slowly, but it’s fading. The wound on his face, an almost neat line just at the top of his facial hair, has been doing even better considering what Will imagines he must have been like between the plunge off the cliff and waking up. He wonders whether that neatness will hold once the stitches come out.

Will doesn’t remember hitting the water, let alone who hit first, but he figures Hannibal must have turned him or done something to mitigate the impact. Mitigate, not prevent of course. All of his injuries are on his left side: lots of bruising along his torso, he’s amazed he didn’t actually manage to break any ribs, along with some very unhappy tendons in his left leg. Foot first entry but slightly to the left, perhaps? His feet are only now coming down to light purple from eggplant. He’ll be moving around with the help of a cane and, eventually, a brace until he can put his whole weight on it without wishing fervently for a bone saw. 

Since he’d prefer to not be led around by a staff member he’s become quite good at getting himself in and out of the wheelchair kept by his bed with as minimal pain as possible. He doesn’t trust his balance enough for the use of the cane just yet, although a hideous four pronged monstrosity awaits his convenience at his bedside. His bruised and cracked ribs do not appreciate these decisions but he grits his teeth and stands by his independence, such that it is. 

The only other English speaker he gets is his one visitor: Chiyoh. Chiyoh, whom Will has given precisely zero thought of over the past three years, tells him precisely nothing useful about Hannibal’s whereabouts. She does fill him in as best as she knows about what happened after the cliff, which is saying practically nothing he doesn’t already know in one form or another. Doctor LaVictoire has told him the medical bits and the rest he just knows. He knows that he’d received most of the injuries from the fall or the rocks but his leg issues are exacerbated by a particularly violent fever dream in which he’d tried to run away and injured himself further. He remembers being in an cold water bath as Hannibal whispered to him, trying to keep the nightmares and hallucinations at bay and ground him in reality. He remembers being held, he remembers being fed. He remembers flashes of storytelling and conversation; even though Will had been in no state to participate. 

The one bit of medical news, or not news, that she gives him is that he’s a fighter. Apparently, Chiyoh says, he should have died during the trip to France. Anyone else probably would have, the doctor confirms. He’s not sure whether that’s meant as a compliment but he decides to take it as one. No one tells him that he’d flatlined twice while in transit. No one needs to. No one also needs to tell him where Hannibal was during all of this before he’d had to leave. He can still feel the kiss on his forehead like a brand. 

Having Chiyoh around does have its advantages. He can only handle so much French television in one go before he understands nothing, he likes to think he’s getting better but he’s not about to test that theory yet. Wheeling around the hospital is good for keeping up his upper body strength, but it is nice to let someone else push him, especially considering his shoulder.“So long as you don’t push me off anything,” he’d warned the first time she’d offered to help him.

He’d almost got a laugh out of her. “I suspect you’ve had enough of falling from high places, whether by your will or not.”Will did chuckle a little at that, it had hurt but that was fine. 

Will has just settled himself back in bed after wheeling himself back from the bathroom when Chiyoh and the good doctor come in and tell him that he’s being released. He wants to ask if Hannibal’s back yet but holds his tongue. He doesn’t want to come off needy and surely he must be around here somewhere, maybe paying for all this insanity. He listens while he’s given his medications, his list of exercises, and endures the removal of of the stitches in his face. The ones inside his mouth will dissolve on their own and the shoulder ones have to stay put for a bit yet..

He’s just about to say thank you when Chiyoh sticks him with a needle.

Outrage bubbles inside of him and almost outside of him too. “What the hell was that?!” he demands, just short of exploding.

“Security,” Chiyoh tells him.

“I already don’t know where I am,” Will counters, his voice already beginning to quiet and slur. His vision tunnelling faster than he’d ever thought possible. 

“For me,” she clarifies as she eases him back to his pillows. “You will come to no harm. When you wake you will be home.”

He almost asks if that means Hannibal will be there too but the world goes out before he can.

=====================================================================

Will makes two decisions upon returning to consciousness: one is that there is going to be a very serious discussion with both Hannibal and Chiyoh about drugging him and the other is that this bed is the most comfortable thing he has ever woken up on. This bed is coming with him no matter what and it is definitely _his_ bed now no matter who paid for it. 

He doesn’t open his eyes right away and keeps himself very still and his breathing regular. Slow and easy. No one calls him out on faking sleep. He tries to listen for breathing or movement in the room. It sounds like he’s alone here but he opens his eyes cautiously anyway; Hannibal can move fast and move silently when the occasion calls for it. Will isn’t sure he wants to know about what occasion would currently call for him to be fooled into thinking he was alone.

The sight that greets him when he decides to open his eyes is a dramatic white curtain billowing out into the room from a cracked open sliding door. He waits patiently for the wind to die down and for Hannibal to appear dramatically from behind the curtain. He doesn’t and Will finds himself profoundly put out and turns his attention back to himself. 

He’s lying on what appears to be a king size bed. He doesn’t have to look behind him to know he is currently propped up on some horrendously ornate, doubtlessly mahogany, headboard. He’s expecting a four poster complete with bed curtains but is pleased to find them absent. He turns around, slowly and on his uninjured side, to find smooth, polished mahogany for a headboard instead of the intricate designs he was imagining. It probably cost more than any bed frame has a right to cost but at least it isn’t showy about it. The same can be said for what Will is certain are the highest thread count sheets, the warmest blanket, and most comfortable mattress ever made by mortal man.There’s no other explanation for the fact that he’s feeling pretty okay despite everything and that he has no desire to leave this bed anytime soon.

Beside the bed, on either side, are two matching end tables and lamps. A old style alarm clock is perched on the one on Will’s side, weighing down his stack of hospital paperwork along with some medication. The Aspirin isn’t a surprise but the Ativan is. He used to keep a bottle stashed in his bedroom, both in Virginia and in Maine, in case of emergency. It was a perscription that he was not pleased to have on record but on the occasions when he’d torn his bedroom apart looking for it he was over the moon about having them on hand. This is a new and full bottle and there is no prescription information on it. He doesn’t bother inspecting them. He knows they’re the real thing. 

Will moves his attention away from the hospital stuff - and his glasses, which he’d thought lost somewhere at that house - and takes in the rest of the room. 

Aside from the wardrobe and dresser set that were doubtless some sort of outrageously expensive antiques, the room is quite cozy. There’s a plush, maroon, wingback chair and matching footrest squeezed into one corner of the room and a long mirror hangs over the dresser, which by rights should be reflecting the sun out of the window and into his face but it looks like whomever hung it was very careful about being blinded first thing in the morning.

Leaning against his night table is a cane. Not the the ugly hospital cane but a classic, wooden hooked one. Some money in it of course, maybe also an antique, but it looked well worn and well used. Something that Will could tolerate using until he was back to full strength. 

He sighs, already missing the embrace of the bed, as he swings his legs over the edge and reaches for the cane. As he expected, it’s perfect for his height and while it is certainly an antique (a well weighed and balanced antique at that) the handle feels custom made. Will is especially thankful for that considering he needs to use the ‘wrong’ arm for the cane because of his shoulder injury. After a few trial steps he decides that yes he will have some pain medication and takes one dry.

As he walks he also notices, to his relief, he’s wearing a baggy pair of red plaid pyjama pants that probably came from a Walmart and a plain white t-shirt that definitely came from a bag with nine other ones instead some silk finery. This was normal and comfortable, if a little chilly considering the breeze in the room. He makes his way to what looks like a robe draped over the back of the wingback chair but stops in front of the sliding door. Before he takes a look outside he approaches the dresser and the mirror.

What Will sees is actually pretty good considering recent events. He looks tired but he always thinks he looks tired. He feels the most well rested he can ever remember being and he doesn’t look like some dark hell beast that had been dragged out of the Atlantic Ocean covered in three different people’s blood. He yanks back his t-shirt from his neck to take a look at the shoulder wound. It looks just as red and stitched and irritated as it had the last time he’d been awake. 

Also on the dresser are a collection of helpful lotions to continue to coax this scar on his cheek to being practically invisible, which it looks like it’s going to be eventually. The neat line is bright pink still from where the stitches were taken out earlier but it will probably turn white quick enough. It’s also going to be mostly hidden by his scruff, he knows, but it’s an identifying mark nevertheless. Great care was put into ensuring that it would never be glaringly obvious and care would be continue to be put into that fact. 

One part aesthetics, one part territoriality. A conversation not worth having. He went into this with eyes wide open and he knows how Hannibal feels about people messing up his things. Will has to admit he’d probably feel the same way as he limps toward the robe, shrugs the blue fuzzy thing on, and leaves the room.

The two story house is surprisingly simple for a man of Hannibal’s tastes. It’s decorated and designed much more than Will would have done on its own but he feels comfortable and at home here, as if the house itself had been made for him. Or as if Will and Hannibal had picked the place and designed it together. The first part may actually be the truth, he has to allow. 

Where Will had awoken was without a doubt the master bedroom. He finds a smaller second bedroom down the hall across from the bathroom that he assumes was originally intended to be his. That room has a queen sized bed instead of a king but Will has a feeling that’s only because of the size of the room. There’s a built in closet here too instead of the wardrobe. Nothing too remarkable and it’s practical if nothing else despite the cost and durability of the furniture. 

Will should be incensed at the presumption that he’d be sharing Hannibal’s bed right out of the gate but he can’t find it in him. This is of course assuming that he wasn’t given the master bedroom because he’s been ill as a courtesy. That fact is probably the most likely but he’s already thinking about making the other room into an office. Hannibal has one at the end of the hall and Will figures he can use one too. Once he’s better able to lift things and reorganize and redesign freely. The one fault so far is that this is not accessible to anyone with mobility concerns but, fortunately, there are only six steps and in two sets of three separated by a landing. It hurts to get down but it’s manageable.

He’s greeted with an open concept kitchen, living and dining area. The kitchen reminds him a lot of a smaller version of Hannibal’s Baltimore kitchen. The island is there, four chairs pulled up to it, and plenty of counter space. A small dining table is close by, there are four place settings and it can probably extend to fit six. Two overstuffed couches and a matching loveseat are clustered a short distance away facing a cabinet that hides a TV An actual, working, TV. Will doesn’t think Hannibal even owned one in Baltimore. Will’s never been one to indulge much either outside of work purposes but it was nice to have a little noise in the background every now and again.

Will doesn’t know if this a place that they plan to stay in for a long time but he allows himself the cautious optimism. There must be a pretty wide amount of land outside, Will decides, but finds he can’t be bothered to take a look or a walk outside. Apparently, he’s more tired than he thought. Healing take its own toll, he knows, but still this is more than a little bit ridiculous. He collapses onto the nearest couch, pulls the afghan off its back and wraps it around himself. He’s asleep instantly.


	3. Chapter Three

Will comes awake to the sound of his stomach growling. He cracks an eye open the second time his stomach roars and notes that night has now fallen and he hasn’t moved a single inch from where he’d plopped himself down. He also feels surprisingly okay considering he’s slept on a couch when it’s probably not the best place for him to be sleeping right now. He shuts his eyes and lays there for a moment anyway. This couch, he decides, is also his and is coming with him no matter how much Hannibal or whoever paid for it. 

Will thinks for a moment before he does it. He knows he’s not going to get an answer but he does it anyway. “Hannibal?”

Expected silence. He sits himself up. “Chiyoh?” It was more likely for her to answer but Will is also not surprised to hear no answer from her either. He shakes his head, settles his feet on the floor, and reaches for the cane.

He makes his way to the kitchen with relative ease, whether that’s relaxation or the medication is something that Will should probably be concerned about but isn’t, and starts poking around the pantry and cupboards for food. His stomach growls in displeasure and Will bites back his own sound of disappointment as he finds the same assortment of canned food offerings that Hannibal’s had had on hand that night. He shouldn’t be picky, he normally wouldn’t be, but hospital food is hospital food no matter how private the hospital. This means groceries and Will laments that trip for more reasons than the normal ones.

Will can understand French when it’s spoken and he can read it pretty well as well. Speaking it on the other hand could be interesting. He hasn’t had a conversation in French with anyone since his days on the force in New Orleans. He wonders what will be worse when he opens his mouth: his hesitancy or his accent. It had taken Will years to get rid of his southern drawl when he spoke English; he’s not going to be able to make words in French sound local overnight. Would that even be wise? Would he be more obvious if he pretended not to know French at all? 

As he ponders that he hears his own voice echoing in his head, reading off a recipe that Hannibal had been preparing at the time. He couldn’t figure out whether the slight double takes he remembers Hannibal giving him were because he liked the accent or hated it but were Hannibal here he imagines Hannibal would suggest he keep it. He’d be right to, Will decides. He’s going to stick out for a few other reasons so why bother drawing even more attention to himself. He brings himself back to the kitchen.

It may be a house that feels like it belongs to them both but the kitchen without a doubt belongs to Hannibal. There’s nothing here that Hannibal did not also have in Baltimore appliance wise. Not as high end if appearances are to be trusted but Hannibal could probably make a four course meal using nothing but a hot plate and nothing else if he had to. Will was happy with electricity and working appliances in general and has no preference on brands of stove or refrigerator so long as they do their job. He is more than happy to let Hannibal have full run of the kitchen.

There had been something on the fridge, he suddenly remembers, nearly losing his balance entirely as he spins toward the monstrous looking thing. Stainless steel, can probably hold enough food for a family of twelve, no fancy ice dispenser to be seen. It’s completely bare aside from an envelope elegantly rested (and taped) to the freezer handle. The envelope has his name on it and it is in that very familiar, pretentious as all hell handwriting. Will grabs it off the handle once he regains his balance and tries to keep his hands still as he tears it open to get at the note inside. 

_My dear Will,_

_I thank you for your consideration in waking up; I am told all is well though I will insist on a full examination upon my return._

Will rolls his eyes. He remembers surprisingly well that Hannibal had asked to see him before he left and Will had had the audacity to wake up the day after Hannibal left instead. _Rude_ he can hear echoing in his head. At least the promise of an exam means that Hannibal still has every intention of coming back, which is nice to have in writing.

_There are certain precautions to take and assurances to be made for our continued liberty and those must primarily be settled in person, I’m afraid. I do not expect to be absent long but I cannot give you an approximation of how long I shall be gone either. Please, make yourself at home. Rest first but feel free to explore, both the grounds and the town, you’ll feel much better with the fresh air._

__

_In the bottom drawer of my desk you’ll find currency and identification. Forgive the age of the photographs, it lends to authenticity and I had no desire to let good workmanship go to waste._

_I hope to see you soon._

_Yours,_

_H_

Will blinks at the note and then reads it again. There’s no hidden agenda in the words. No riddle to unravel no matter how hard he looks. Hannibal’s even being open with the fact that he has had a fake identity for Will for some time prior to his imprisonment. Most likely from when the three of them were supposed to run away together after killing Jack. He braces for it but the image of Hannibal slicing Abigail’s throat open does not immediately come to mind. Not in that way at least. He’s reminded of it, he feels the sting in his gut that he will always feel when he thinks of her, but it is not as emotionally devastating as it once had been. 

Will sighs. The world has moved on. He has moved on. Twice over now.

He reads the note again and this time focuses on the writing. The penmanship is as precise and beautiful as always, written probably at his desk upstairs as if he had all the time in the world, but there’s something about the conclusion. The inclusion of ‘I hope to see you soon,’ almost looks like it had been added Hannibal had signed off on it.

Will thumps his cane on the linoleum irritably. _I hope to see you soon._ It wasn’t like Will was planning on going anywhere, he’d thought he’d made that implicitly clear when he’d thrown them both over the edge instead of simply pushing Hannibal off alone. Even if he wanted to run he was in no position to do so. Not yet anyway.

Will sharply glares at his stomach as it growls again. “Alright, alright” he mutters as he puts the letter back in its envelope and fixes it to the front of the fridge with the piece of tape. He opens it, hoping against hope for some bare necessities to make a sandwich. Or even just toast. When he looks inside he is quickly reminded that throwing in his lot with Hannibal Lecter, hedonist and gourmand extraordinaire, means that he will never have to settle for anything ever again. There are about a week and a half’s worth of plastic containers, all precisely labeled in Hannibal’s precise handwriting. Nothing fancy, soups and stews with the odd salad, all things that were quick to make and didn’t require anything fancy. He’s going to need to go make that shopping trip but maybe he’ll actually feel like doing it by the time he runs out of food. Hannibal’s given him extra time and he breathes out a thanks for that. 

He pulls out a container labeled ‘Chicken Soup’ and has a brief moment of pause as he thinks about how true the ‘chicken’ part of the label is. He shakes his head almost immediately. There’s no way. Hannibal hasn’t had the time and he is far from stupid. Also, Will knows without thinking, gone are the days where Hannibal calls human meat something else. If this soup was People Soup it would be labelled as such. He isn’t nearly as disturbed by this entire line of thought as he should be, or used to be, and he definitely shouldn’t be finding a precise label reading ‘People Soup’ in handwriting better found in historical documents funny. He does though, he always has, and rule one of life after death he decides is to stop feeling guilty. He is far too overjoyed to eat something that isn’t hospital food. Private hospital food, yes, but the money was going into preserving your anonymity and not your taste buds.

Will finishes warming the soup up on the stove after cursing Hannibal for keeping his pots and pans in lower cabinets, and practically moans once he sits down and swallows the first spoonful. It’s just soup for God’s sake and not even fresh soup at that but it has to be the best thing he’s had pass his lips in years. No matter where the ingredients came from, Will had missed Hannibal’s cooking. Comparing anyone to Hannibal was far from fair but food had never been an experience or quite as satisfying since the last meal he’d had at Hannibal’s. The thought about eating the food of the underworld comes to mind and he wonders if that was part of the whole game. Likely, he decides. 

In any case soup was something that came from a can in both his bachelor and married days. Molly could make a good chicken broth when she wanted and had the time but that was usually only on the table whenever someone was sick and usually never otherwise.

The spoon nearly clatters into Will’s bowl but he manages to minimize the noise and fortunately there’s not enough soup left to make a mess. It’s the first thought he’s had of Molly or Walter in...he is not surprised that he can’t remember the last time he thought of them. Bedelia’s? That last talk at the hospital? He can’t bring it to mind no matter how hard he reaches. It’s terrible of him, beyond terrible. He knows it, accepts it, but can’t find the appropriate amount of guilt or sadness or disgust. He doesn’t think he ever will.

He’d known it deep down from day one that it was not going to last. That it was irresponsible and delusional of him to think that he could feel for Molly what Molly felt for him. That he could fake it for the rest of their lives, letting Molly buy it but always knowing it was an act. Yet another persona he’d constructed with borrowed aspects of other people he’s been for whatever reason. It wouldn’t be good for him but it would be good for everyone else. 

The plan had been simple enough: Will had rejected Hannibal and he’d turned himself in just like Will had known he would. All Will had to do was not go anywhere near him for the rest of his life. It was that easy. Or so he’d thought. He’d moved around; different cities and different states and worked more with his hands than his mind so he could ignore everything inside of him screaming at him to go back for Hannibal. To answer the letters Hannibal wrote him once he’d finally decided to settle in Maine and had a fixed address under his real name instead of reading them and then burning them. He’d tried to stop even reading them but he couldn’t. He’d thrown an unopened envelope on the fire once and had almost got second degree burns when he’d snatched back. 

Molly Foster, the widow who took her dogs to the same park as he did, was a welcome distraction. She’d pursued him and Will hadn’t had any interest initially. The rest of the plan was live out his life in isolation and obscurity with his dogs and hope and pray that he was left alone until the day he died. He just wanted to be forgotten and left alone. That had been the plan until Will found himself enjoying the attention that someone without any ulterior motive or agenda showered on him. Will had eventually decided she’d be good for him and reciprocated her attentions. Most of it was real and true. As much as he was able to be real and true that is. 

Wally had been more little more wary of him and Will couldn’t blame him for that. The whole stepfather thing aside, kids always had a better sense of things than adults did. Especially adults in love, which Molly very much was. Will was a good fisherman and if has learned one thing in the past few years it's that he cannot change his nature. Especially when now that he actually knows what it is.

He wonders if Wally ever tried to warn her off, tried to tell her that something wasn’t right about him. Molly’s parents had hated him and Will refuses to believe that Wally had never googled him or that her rich parents had never tried to find out about him before they got married. It seems that everyone had decided to let Molly have this. She was happy and carefree and at least Will had seemed to have somewhat a handle on himself and was actively trying to be normal. Effort has to count for something, everyone probably supposed, and Molly had a fondness for strays and hard luck cases. 

Will could have continued in this numbed, sanitized, happiness indefinitely had Jack not darkened his door and he can find it in himself now to be disgusted with himself for it. Disgusted on Molly’s behalf and on Hannibal’s too. If Francis Dolarhyde had never killed anyone Will would never have left Molly on his own; he was too committed to doing the impossible and sticking to the plan that was really its own form of self imposed prison.

Something would have happened eventually, he knows. If not Dolarhyde then someone else. Jack would have dug him up eventually. Or Hannibal would have decided he’d given up too many years of his life and would have broken out and either done something or openly come looking for him. Will had secretly expected him to do so much earlier but it seemed Hannibal was also duly committed to a cause and three years in captivity, in humiliation, were but a small price to pay for the sure knowledge that Will would eventually return to him. It could have been decades later and Hannibal would have been just as elated. Will would have regretted the time spent apart like he does now but Hannibal would have rejoiced, would have made him rejoice as well. 

He should be thankful that the separation was briefer than it could have been. That Molly has a barely two year marriage to get over instead of a twenty year one and Walter is young enough to bounce back and forget about him in time. As bad as it is to say, everything worked out the best for everyone. Except for Jack. And Alana. And Chilton. He has no regrets about Jack or Chilton but he does feel a twinge of pity for Alana. Alana and Margot and their son. He wonders if Hannibal is coming for them even now. He finds himself hoping not. Alana may be worthy of Hannibal’s wrath, from what Will can imagine Alana must have enjoyed having Hannibal so completely under her thumb these past three years, but Margot and their son have done nothing. Hannibal does not strike at those who are undeserving. He almost thinks that Hannibal is not a child killer but remembers Abigail again.

Abigail, he admits as he grips the spoon so tightly it imprints on his palm, had been playing the game. If you played, you paid. No exceptions.

Will refills his soup bowl and decides to set about making coffee with the french press. He’d played, both knowing and unknowing, and he’d paid. More than paid. There is no real victory in the game but this stalemate is as close as he can get and he’ll count it as a victory. Will’s been many things to many people but he’s never really been anything to himself or for himself. Or anything to himself that is also accepted and seen as desirable by another. 

He won’t go as far as to say he’s happy. Not yet anyway. He’s alone in a foreign country. He’s scarred and wounded. He’s not sure what going to happen when Hannibal comes back but whatever does happen is going involve him making informed and actual decisions. No more games. No more manipulations. Not from anyone ever again. That’s what this actually is. That’s why Hannibal wrote that he hoped to see him soon.

For the first time in his life he is free. Actually, truly, and properly free. He’s unlocked his own prison cell and has finally realised he can walk out without being dragged back in. 

Will smiles as he grinds the coffee. It’s both true and false and it’s beautiful and right and the only thing missing from these realisations is that there is no one here to share them with. 


	4. Chapter Four

The coffee may have been a mistake.

He’s tired. Again. He wants to go to bed. It’s midnight. He really should consider it if he wants to have any kind of normal sleeping patterns. It’s a nice idea and it’s something he’d like to try to have at least once in his life.

It’s both curiosity and the fact that what he finds is sure to exhaust him that leads Will back to the couch again, a previously unnoticed tablet in hand, and typing in his and Hannibal’s names into Google.

He’s sure that Hannibal must have told him, unconscious him, in all that time by his bedside but he doesn’t remember. Chiyoh had never mentioned anything and Will had never brought up the topic himself. Whatever was being said hadn’t made it to international news anyway. Will had kept the news channels on for a reason and he hadn’t seen a hint of anything about either of them.

The tablet had been still in its box, sitting on the coffee table when Will noticed it. Setting it up had taken no time at all and it had only taken him two tries to guess the password to the only wireless network available to connect to. He is slightly paranoid about actually launching the search but he takes all precautions and suspects that the door tucked off to the side, next to the stairs, leads to a basement that has Hannibal’s precautions. Hannibal isn’t looking to be caught or found. Not this time. 

Will taps the screen and wonders if this what drowning had felt like.

The coverage is sensational and Will is now a veteran of way too many media storms for comfort. Being accused of being the Copycat Ripper and being exonerated was one thing, the night at Hannibal’s house another. The trip to Italy, Hannibal’s surrender, and the trial had been the worst and Will hadn’t thought to be part of anything worse than that ever again. 

That was quaint local reporting in comparison to this. Freddie Lounds and TattleCrime is of course at the heart of it and every little thing that Freddie says is what the other papers take their leads from. For the first little bit anyway. Aside from Freddie’s Shakespearian tragedy angle, there’s days of nothing while the manhunt starts. Will, much to his displeasure, was being considered a hostage at this point. He wasn’t sure whether he was insulted at the implication that he was an innocent bystander or by the complete disregard of both Hannibal and Dolarhyde’s well known patterns. Neither of the men had made their names by taking hostages, at least not obviously like this. If Will had been Hannibal’s hostage it would have been made to appear that he hadn’t survived the fight. There would be no evidence to suggest he was still alive. To Will’s further displeasure he finds that someone had suggested that the two killers had eaten him and then ran off together. The fact that Dolarhyde was a confirmed casualty did not affect the person’s belief in the slightest. This might be the most painfully stupid thing that Will had ever read and he’s seen his share of outrageous and crackpot theories in more essays than he cares to remember. 

Will had never thought he’d live to see the day that he preferred Freddie’s interpretation of events, that being based on the leaked footage from Dolarhyde’s video camera and Freddie deciding that Will and Hannibal are alive and out cannibalizing everyone they meet. Because Murder Husbands of course. He still doesn’t like term. He isn’t as unimpressed as he was originally but it’s still not a moniker he would have chosen for them. Hannibal probably gets some perverse amusement from it but only because it’s so tasteless and outrageous. 

Jack Crawford is only given passing reference in most of Freddie’s reporting and her contemporaries. He’s off the case officially as best as Will can tell, taken to task for the insane plan that Will had talked him into, but Will knows he won’t let this go. This is personal now. He’s certainly cursing himself for not killing Hannibal in Florence instead of leaving him for Will. Jack is not a stupid man but he really should have known better than to trust Will with Hannibal’s death. Will had even been honest with him. 

He’s almost used to the insanity when he reads an article reporting a Hannibal sighting. In Virginia not far from Will’s old house. Then, not a day and a half later, in Prague. If Will has his timelines right, and he’s fairly sure he does, while all this is happening Hannibal is still at the hospital with him. As if to mock him, another article about a sighting in Moscow pops up. The photo with the article is a little bit better but Will still can’t be sure even knowing it’s impossible.

Then things get really weird when Will starts reading about reports about _himself_ being spotted in Hannibal’s company at these places. At least until an alleged joint sighting in Cape Town and then there’s nothing but rampant speculation. Depending on who he’s reading Will is either in hiding, dead, or dead and eaten. Will knows that Kade Purnell or whomever has taken over has no one to ask but if this were a different case and Will had been called in to give his opinion he’d be subscribing to the last answer. If Hannibal ever killed him he would definitely eat him and he’d leave nothing behind. No one would ever know what became of him. It’s a bit comforting, Will has to allow, to know how your end will come about. 

He wonders if Hannibal feels the same way; he’s already demonstrated that if he ever gets it in his head to kill Hannibal he’d take them both out. Hannibal may not take them together but he wouldn’t be long for this world if he ever took Will out of it himself. One way or another he’d be joining him, by his hand or another’s. They can’t survive separation.

Will shuts the tablet off and puts it aside. One of them is missing and presumed dead. The other is at large and seems to be running international law enforcement around the globe. How they cannot see that this is a sham is beyond Will’s comprehension. The ending is so obvious, the only thing that Will doesn’t have mapped out is precisely when Hannibal plans to kill himself. Soon, he imagines. Or hopes. He’s not sure which. Both, probably.

It’s so obvious. It’s so dramatic and giftwrapped that they should be suspicious. They won’t be, though. It will be over. They will take what they get at face value because, despite everything, no one has learned a thing.

And they never will. Will Graham is dead.

As if in protest to that statement, he lets out a yawn so loud that he manages to startle himself. His face smarts and he rubs it carefully as he shuts off the lights and slowly hobbles up the stairs. Bed should be where he’s headed next but he has a few more things he’s curious about before he goes to bed. 

After a brief break in the hallway he enters Hannibal’s office. Despite the room looking nothing like Hannibal’s Baltimore consulting room he can’t help feeling reminded and seeing Hannibal sitting there slotting appointments into his datebook. He blinks the hallucination away before it can make eye contact with him and takes in the much smaller and simpler space. The desk, he’s confident, is exactly the same as Hannibal’s old one and takes up most of the room. It’s barren aside from a blank writing blotter and the usual assortment of office supplies that have the bright sheen of the freshly dusted. 

He takes a seat in the office chair and evaluates the sparse bookshelves and single filing cabinet as he slowly spins in it. If he were so inclined to snoop around he’s sure he wouldn’t find anything important. Documents with regards to the house but that was likely to be it. This is the first time this house has been used. It’s been waiting, open and ready to be made into a proper home, for years. If this is where they will make a home what will they do here? Hannibal seems to have unlimited sources of wealth but they can’t sit around and do nothing all day. They’d end up killing each other for sure. There will be jobs for them both but what would they be? 

Will hooks his cane into the bottom drawer of the desk and opens it to find a large manilla envelope. When he shakes the contents out on the desk a veritable mountain of Euros falls out along with another smaller envelope. He starts with the cash and barely makes it into sorting the bills when he decides this is way too much for him and way too much to not have locked up somewhere. He could run off with all this. 

Will sighs, resigned. Even after a leap into the ocean, after everything, he’s being given the choice to leave. As much as Hannibal needs the time to mislead the authorities, he’s giving Will time to make an informed choice about what he wants without being forced into it by default or obligation or coercion. That choice will be respected no matter what it is, too. If he runs he knows he will never have to worry about Hannibal calling on him or finding him. 

What was that line about setting the thing you loved free?

Inside the smaller envelope are a credit card, a bank card, and a driver’s license all bearing the name of Matthew Harper but with Will’s face on the driver’s license. Matt Harper, Will tries out in his head. It works, he decides, and thanks Hannibal for not saddling him with something incredibly pretentious. This is something he can remember to answer to. Going through the drawer a bit more he finds a passport (dual US and EU citizenship) and learns that his birthdate is now a month earlier than it actually is and that he’s still from Louisiana thanks to the birth certificate tucked inside as well. 

He doesn’t find anything of Hannibal’s in the drawer. He eyeballs the safe sitting in the corner behind the door and hopes unnecessarily that Hannibal isn’t so stupid to be travelling under whatever persona he plans to use here. He could check, he probably knows the combination to that safe but he puts it out of his mind. If there was anything of any use for him, even if it was a gun to shoot Hannibal in the head with the second he walked back in the door, he’d have been told about it. This newfound openness and honesty is as strange as it is welcome. Especially with him not having spoken to Hannibal about any of this.

Will puts that out of his mind too for now. He puts everything back in the envelope, then back in the desk, and heads back into the bedroom. Before he collapses onto the bed he pushes the screen door all the way open steps onto the balcony. It’s freezing now and he tightly wraps his robe around him as he props himself up against the doorway. It’s just big enough for two chairs and small table and the full glass railings provide no obstruction of the open country before him. It’s dark out so he can’t quite see the finer details but at a glance it literally looks like everything under the moonlight belongs to him, or could belong to him if he so chose to reach out and take it.

It is beautiful and he can see himself spending a good deal of time out here. Leaving the cane against the side of the house, Will shuffles to the nearest wroght iron chair and sits down. It’s quite comfortable, again like it was made for him. On reflex he looks to his right, to the other chair, with every expectation of seeing Hannibal sitting there. Once again, he believes he sees him for a moment but the moment quickly passes. Hannibal has never spent a great deal of time here himself. He haunts the decor more than he haunts the space.

All the better to not influence his decisions, he supposes. 

Will stands after a few moments, takes in the view once more, before yawning again and deciding that he really needs to get to bed. He shuts the screen door all the way this time but leaves the curtains open. The moonlight reflecting off the mirror is just as inoffensive as the sun had been earlier.

As Will settles into bed he realises that he hasn’t felt this peaceful since being in Hannibal’s arms. Soon enough after that, he is gone.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one's a little late!

It’s three days before Will decides it’s time to get a bit more fresh air.

Three days of sleeping wherever and whenever he wants without being poked awake for tests, exercises, or visitors is a vacation in of itself. He can eat what he wants, where he wants, and has no commitments to anyone or anything for the first time in his entire adult life. It is a wonderful, liberating feeling but he gives himself a daily to do list of one item: physiotherapy. He has no intention of keeping the cane any longer than he needs to and he has enough issues with both his shoulders already.

He doesn’t need to consult the hospital paperwork for his shoulder, unfortunately he has enough experience to give himself a through session without extra help. Things are getting stronger, slowly, but hasn’t been all that long and there is the switching his cane back and forth between hands to contend with. It will slow his progress down but, at the moment, he doesn’t need to move anywhere for long periods of time and he’s fine to keep it that way while he builds up strength. He decides to work out both shoulders the same as a result of the trading back and forth. Maybe he’ll end up ambidextrous at the end of all this. 

Will is new to a leg injury and he is merciless with the exercises he’s given. He even looks up some additional ones and he works until his leg seizes, which is a terrible way of doing things but he needs his leg functional above all else, and ends up collapsed on the couch watching TV and surfing the internet on the tablet. Again, there isn’t much to note progress wise but he takes the fact that his ribs seem to be okay now as one minor victory. The bruising on his feet lessening significantly another.

On day four when he wakes up he can’t help but notice how bad he smells. He breaks a sweat during physio for sure and there is never any way he can make it up the stairs to shower afterwards. He does his best with splashing himself with water wherever he can in the downstairs half bath and always means do bathe properly later. He never gets around to it.

There has to be a downside attached to not having anywhere to be, anyone to impress, or any reason to leave the house and this appears to be it. Even Will has a limit to how bad he can smell. He probably should also change out of these pyjamas and figure out something else to wear. Maybe even endeavour to find out where one does laundry. He really hopes this rustic charm doesn’t include a washboard and a basin. He is really not up for that. 

Will hasn’t paid too much attention to the shower until now and now that he is giving it attention he tries not to let his imagination wander too far about why the hell the shower needed to be so big. All glass, fogged in appropriate places thankfully, but it still looks like he’ll be showering for an audience even though there’s no one here. There’s a plastic chair in there waiting there, which Will uses to strip and artfully tosses the days old pyjamas and underwear onto the counter for him to collect later. There is easily room for another person, maybe one more without the chair. It is nice though. 

When the water hits him, and Will finds an ideal temperature somewhere between Heated Blanket and Fires of Hell, he decides sitting isn’t so bad. He’d been thinking about standing anyway but decided that falling down in an empty house and being unable to get up again was not a smart move no matter how badly he wanted to get back to normal. There isn’t a phone here for him to crawl to anyway. There’s going to be enough care to be taken with wet tiles once he’s done here. He gets comfortable and just sits there and basks for what feels like an age before he reaches for the collection of shower products. And it is a collection.

When Will stocks a shower for himself there’s a bar of soap and the cheapest shampoo he can find. Conditioner is something he’s never dealt with either aside from trying not to use Molly’s by mistake. There are four bottles here and everything is written in German or Italian. He figures out which one is the body wash and starts with that. It smells fantastic - sandalwood and pine if he’s reading the Italian correctly - but smell is not helping him decide which of the German bottles is which. It takes longer than it should for Will to realise that he can just see which one lathers and assume that’s the shampoo. He almost forgoes the conditioner out of protest but remembers the one time he’d borrowed Molly’s shampoo because he’d been out and neglected the conditioner. His hair had felt weird all day and the fact that he was distracted by his hair of all things bothered him. He runs the conditioner through his curls grumbles all through the process.

He’s buying his own shampoo when he gets out of here. Hannibal can just deal with him smelling like bargain bin, all in one stuff if he plans to stick around.

Hannibal at least has given him the option of straight razor or an electric one, which is really no choice at all and Hannibal had to have known that. Will takes the electric razor and gets to work on that, carefully avoiding his new scar. When he’s tamed his beard into something respectable, he hasn’t shaved under his own power since before Dolarhyde, he decides he actually looks well rested for the first time in his life. By shaving he’s drawn more attention to his still pink scar but puts it out of his mind. There’s no one to to see it and he’s very grateful for that fact. 

Will has never been a vain man and it’s not the first time he’s had a scar on his face - the one from Hannibal’s bone saw is practically gone now - but this is the most starkly visible scar he’s ever had. Even when the bone saw scar had been fresh he could hide it behind his hair easily. He traces a finger over the three year old scar. Interesting, he decides, what three years difference can change to one’s reaction. Will fails to stab him in the back, Hannibal retaliates by trying to eat his brain. Will throws them both off a cliff, Hannibal decides that’s a declaration of love and acceptance and does not retaliate at all.

Not to say that Hannibal is wrong but it’s an interesting change there. There’s a catalogue of interesting changes between first meeting Hannibal and now and Will’s beyond certain that Hannibal’s been enjoying and marking his own changes from the moment they met. Equal footing means equal appreciation too.

=====================================================================

If you were to ask anyone else about what Hannibal would dress Will in if given the chance they would answer “in finery.” In the same suits and dashing cuts that Hannibal himself preferred. Will knew differently. Hannibal would definitely upgrade his wardrobe but not his style - after all, he’d met him and enjoyed him in his casual, cheap clothing so why on earth would he make him dress up like Hannibal himself? Hannibal wanted and appreciated him as an equal, not as a clone.

There are two suits that have clearly been made for him on what has been designated his half of the wardrobe, again Will is not miffed at the presumption, but the rest are items that Will definitely would have picked up his own. When he slips on a blue knit sweater over one of the generic white t-shirts he finds that it are more tailored (and certainly more expensive) than he’s used to but still comfortable. The same is said of the jeans he finds in the dresser drawer. 

What Hannibal has here for himself is what would be considered basic essentials in his world. Dress pants, slightly less casual slacks, dress shirts, warm and expensive sweaters. There is little of what Will is used to seeing Hannibal in. Not surprising but it’s strange to see the emptiness in the house echoed by a mostly empty half of a wardrobe and empty sections in the dresser. The empty half of the bed too; Will is beginning to think of the side that’s closest to the balcony as his. 

The only traces of Hannibal as Will best remembers him are a pair of navy silk pyjamas in the dresser and two very basic suits on the otherwise empty half of the wardrobe that complement the ones on Will’s half. Everything here compliments Will’s clothing. Or is it Will’s clothing that compliments Hannibal’s?

_Does it even matter?_

He can’t help it. He shuffles forward, takes the arm of the closest of Hannibal’s suit jackets, and inhales deeply through his nose. It smells like musty closet. His nose isn’t as fine tuned as Hannibal’s but he would have had to have worn it at least once while it was being made, wouldn’t he? How long ago that was was another question. The silk pyjamas in the dresser are new and have definitely never been worn. Or maybe once. It’s a little harder to tell.

Will prods the pile of discarded clothes into the middle of his wet towel. He bundles it all up under his free arm and heads down the hall and down the stairs, not letting himself break at the landing this time. He’ll get the sheets another time when he’s more coordinated. 

The door leading to what Will assumes is the basement has done nothing more than service as another doorknob for Will to accidentally walk into when his balance fails him. He has also nearly ripped it off the door while trying to get back on his feet. He’s probably going to have to think about tightening it later, it feels like a strong wind will blow it right off. 

He’s feeling stable enough for now and he hopes that the stairs that are certainly behind this door are neither numerous nor rickety. They are both.

_“God damn it, Hannibal.”_

One uncomfortable trip down nine steps with no handrail and juggling a cane and a laundry bundle Will finds the washer/dryer unit. Also the wireless router, the fuse box, water heater, and other parts of a house that are nice to know the location of. He also finds two other rooms. One is stark white linoleum from floor to ceiling with one chair and one table. A sink and a drain are included as well. The door can only be opened from the outside. 

The existence of a murder basement doesn’t surprise him but what does surprise him is the fact that he isn’t immediately rushing off to think of something else. He does stop the pendulum from swinging and actually placing himself or Hannibal there and simply regards the room for a moment. It’s here but it can be forgotten about or used as something else just as easily. It doesn’t have to be what it was designed for. Another choice to be made. Will shuts the door and turns his attention to the other door, fingering the set of keys he’d found lying in the washer. Hannibal had put on lot on faith that Will would come down here at all and if he did wouldn’t just toss his clothes in there without looking. Will normally wouldn’t have and couldn’t explain why he’d investigated first the innards of a standard washing machine first. He inserts the key, turns it, then opens the door.

Will wishes he could remind Hannibal, loudly and strongly, that he’d thrown them both off a cliff. Hannibal hasn’t heard Will speak a word, lucidly anyway, since telling him that the murder they’d just committed together - their _first murder together_ \- was beautiful. And his response to that realisation had been to throw them off a goddamned cliff. What if Hannibal’s assessment of the situation had been totally wrong? What if Will tried to kill him again? Or even just himself? It would be a wonderful fuck you to Hannibal, to have him return to find a corpse that he did not put there. A corpse of someone he no longer wanted to see as a corpse and had been dead too long to be eaten to boot.

Upstairs there were knives, a straight razor, and medication that Will could use. Down here there were far more violent options. Behind the locked door is not quite enough stuff to call it an armory but there is a fine collection of instruments of death here: knives, piano wire, an amputation kit. No guns and no bullets but then again why would Hannibal need those? Will wonders, distractedly, whether Hannibal has ever actually fired a gun in his life.

He realises he’s spoken, thought rather, too soon about the guns. First he sees a rifle very much like the one that he’d used to keep at the house in Wolf Trap. Second is the handgun. Both are unloaded there are two boxes of bullets for each gun perched on a nearby shelf. He’ll find permits upstairs in the safe somewhere. Both under Matthew Harper’s name, he’s certain.

He hasn’t seen any people from his view from the balcony so they’re reasonably far from the nearest town or a neighbour. He’s going to find out as best as he can today because he really should consider working on his aim now that his shoulders are screwed up even more.

The pistol, Will notes as he examines it, looks identical he had on hand that night. Experimentally he raises it and aims it at unseen foe, cane hooked over his forearm. It feels the same, is the same make and model, but there’s no way it’s the same gun. He puts the gun back and takes a scan of the room again as he unhooks the cane from his arm and puts the handle back in his hand.

It’s a hard call to make, Will finds, whether he Hannibal subtly making choices for him or giving him every possible choice more menacing. Or comforting. He shivers and decides it is far too cold down here to stay any longer.

He closes and locks the door, locks the other room, slips the keys into his pocket, and braces himself for the climb up the stairs. When he’s able, he’s definitely fixing these.

=====================================================================

When he gets outside he immediately wishes he’d looked around for a coat. It’s trying to be spring out but not succeeding totally; when the wind blows it means business. He hardens his resolve. He’d wanted fresh air and so he has no right to complain about it being delivered. As if in agreement, the wind blasts across him again. Will tightens his grip on the cane and takes another defiant step, then another, and eventually he doesn’t feel the bite quite so badly. 

The view from the ground level gives him a bit more scope as to how large the land attached to this property is. When standing on the balcony he can see the stone walls where the property ends but he can’t even see a hint of it in the distance from where he is. The gravel driveway to his left he knows eventually leads down to a gate, probably passcode protected, but that gate is far away. If someone were to sneak up they’d have to drive through the gate and given how quiet the nights are only a hybrid would be able to pass by undetected if somehow they weren’t roused by the gate being smashed and any subsequent alarms from the security system. Will’s noted its existence, noted that is is live, but he wonders what happens when it’s tripped. It’s not like the police would be a welcome sight here.

Will is a light sleeper when he’s healthy and Will pictures Hannibal as being a deep sleeper but easily roused for a noise or a scent or even a feeling of there being an intruder. There are no cameras in the house that he can find so Will imagines there would be a literal alarm and then...then they’d be more than able to take care of whatever came by on their own.

Will puts his weight on his good leg and balances the cane in his hand again, waves it around as if he means to bludgeon someone with it. His shoulders twinge in disagreement but he could swing through it if he had to. He thinks of the weapons stash downstairs. A wounded animal is more dangerous than a healthy one, he reminds himself, and cannot stop the grin that spreads across his face. 

He’ll be fine if Interpol shows up in the dead of night but he does assume Hannibal must have something set up in the event that something happens while he’s gone. It’s an option for an emergency at the very least.

This is paranoia and he knows it. They aren’t going to be found. The FBI, through Jack Crawford no less, has made a statement that Will Graham is confirmed dead. He wonders what Hannibal has left them and how bad it is that even Freddie Lounds hasn’t reported it.

He should be more worried about Hannibal than he is. He is concerned and a bit worried but, really, he should be a lot more worried. On the other hand though Hannibal has never been successfully caught. The only reason he was ever in prison in the first place was because Will had manipulated him into wanting to be there. He had also only stayed there because he wanted to. They’ll never get Hannibal behind bars again. 

Will may not know where he is or where to find him right at this moment but if he was so inclined, uninjured, and wasn’t supposed to be dead he could figure it out eventually. It’s enough to know that Hannibal is coming back. Not ideal, for either of them, but it’s what works for the situation at hand. It will probably be something one or the other of them will have to do again. 

He walks a bit, following the driveway, until he feels the land start to slope and turns back to take a look at the house. It’s a farmhouse, made of the same stone as the walls (or at least he assumes so), and as much as it looks at least a hundred year old it has definitely been updated. Not entirely either, Will notices as he takes a look at the steps and the shutters on the sides of the windows. Nothing Hannibal would have ever noticed if he’d been here in the past three or four years. For a moment he almost hears and feels dogs at his sides and almost mistakes the house before him as his house in Wolf Trap. It’s not the same place but it has the same feel from the outside. No front porch though. As much as Will likes the bedroom balcony he does like the idea of having a place to sit at ground level. 

Later, he has to remind himself. He’s not in a position to take on all this work. He glowers at his leg. And takes himself on a walk around the house, inspecting the foundations, noting the reasonable size of flower beds. Will’s not opposed to a bit of light gardening but he is definitely not a landscaper - and if money is no option he is getting a riding lawnmower one way or another. He loves all this land, acres of it since he still can’t see a neighbour or another building, but he is not pushing a lawnmower all over it.

Will snorts to himself and rolls his eyes. Not only is he hoping that this is going to be where they aim to stay more and more but he’s already dividing household chores. He doesn’t remember Hannibal ever mentioning hiring a landscaper or paying a local kid to mow his lawn but neither has Will ever seen or heard mention of him doing his own yard work. 

When he reaches the back of the house he decides he doesn’t need a front porch. This open area patio, which looked quite similar to the patio where he and Hannibal had killed Dolarhyde, was so much better. There were a few chairs but the two best ones, plush things that looked more like they belonged inside, were pushed together and close a fire pit facing the back of the property. They must be so waterproof that they’d be dry in a hurricane for Hannibal to be fine with having them out here uncovered. 

Will can’t resist. He makes his way to one and settles into one of them. He almost disappears into it but props himself up a bit more. He shuts his eyes for a moment and imagines Hannibal next to him prodding the fire with a poker while at the same time turning what looked like chicken on a spit. He doesn’t remember seeing a spit in the house but he figures there must be more down in the basement then he’d originally noticed, or maybe in the shed a short distance away. Of course the kitchen, while sizable, wouldn’t have done for some of Hannibal’s more ambitious dishes. And if he had the option with all this space why not use it?

When Will had bought the house in Wolf Trap he had bought it as it was. He wasn’t a man to take work home with him and he didn’t even have internet in the house. All e-mails and other correspondence he’d dealt with on campus. When he was at home he was at home. He was spending time with his dogs, reading books, doing projects. Distracting himself as much as he could.. 

Hannibal’s home had been full of activity by comparison by the dinner parties alone. He also always seemed to be entertaining in one way or another whether he was throwing a dinner party or not, too. It’s been the subject in the press and in Chilton’s book but it was amazing that no one thought anything was amiss given the amount of times people were over. Hannibal knew how to perform for an audience and knew where to keep their attention so they wouldn’t notice things about the kitchen or secret basements and the like. 

Hannibal does have hobbies outside of killing people and cooking and all of them seem to be self improving in one way or another. Painting, composing, music…

He opens his eyes back to daylight and his own solitude. He relishes in the comfort of the chair for a few moments more before standing up again. Inside the unlocked shed he finds firewood, fire starters, and the spit he’d known would be in there. He also finds blankets. For a moment he almost considers getting a fire going and getting comfortable but instead files it away for later. A later when he isn’t alone.

The rest of his tour of the grounds is satisfactory. When Hannibal was on the run last time he’d been hiding in plain sight in Florence, in hiding as library curator under the name of a man he had killed. It was reckless, living as a man that others were certain to have met in actual fact. But, the part of Will’s mind that is Hannibal reminds him, he’d wanted to leave a trail. He wanted Will to find him. There was no best of the best here that would attract attention. Or at least not enough for anything to raise anyone’s suspicions.

And yet Will has to consider that yet another one of the choices open to him is that he could live here alone. Hannibal is coming back but nowhere has he said that he will stay. If he gives the slightest hint that he loves the property more than Hannibal’s company then Hannibal will leave him alone there. There’s probably papers in that safe, Will grudgingly admits, for that eventuality because while Hannibal is essentially an optimist he does not like to be caught unawares. Unless it involves Will, he has to amend. 

“I’m not leaving,” Will states aloud as he stares up at the front of the house again. “And when you get back, you’re not leaving either.”

The wind howls across the fields and Will has no choice but to head inside. There’s just the garage left but he doesn’t need to look in there to know what is there waiting for him. Another means of freedom, whether as permanent escape or a temporary change of scenery.

Will’s glad that his left leg is not required to work the pedals of a car. 


	6. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) Oh look! Nearly 15000 words later Will Graham leaves the property! *gasp*
> 
> 2) Disclaimer: My French is rusty and I'm Canadian. Do let me know if something's incorrect or could be phrased better. Translations will be following for those of you reading this on mobile and can't see the hover translations (also let me know if those aren't working). Also my apologies for the extreme liberty I am certain I'm taking with French geography. 
> 
> 3) Can I also pop in and say I thank all of you for reading. Not much has happened so far and I'm delighted by the response this fic has gotten so far. A million, trillion thank yous!
> 
> 4) WARNING: The end of this chapter has a description of a someone doing something very gruesome. I don't go into play by play detail but heads up if that scares you. I'm going to update the story info accordingly.

Will runs out of Hannibal’s premade meals after a week. The following morning he contents himself with coffee for breakfast and packs his new wallet with Matt Harper’s credit and bank cards and with enough euros that he thinks are acceptable for a supply run and a breakfast stop. He also tries out a few basic French phrases out loud and makes as much peace as he can with the fact that he’s going to sound distinctive no matter what he does. He isn’t going to fake an accent and he doesn’t even know what a local accent here sounds like.

Will hasn’t bothered really to note where exactly he is until now. It’s been easy to find out but it hasn’t mattered until now. ‘Here’ he knows is in France generally but now he knows specifics: he’s residing in a small clutch of properties and ‘downtown’ area referred to as Petit Ardon. Ardon proper is actually several miles away and is actually located on a map. Hannibal has helpfully added notes to a print off from the internet to orient himself properly. Petit Ardon is actually, technically, a part of Ardon but neither Ardon really cares about one another. The closest major city is Orleans and that’s about a twenty minute drive away. A happy medium between a rural lifestyle and a cosmopolitan one, really. Paris is also accessible is the mood strikes. 

Options, options, options. Will mutters as he locks up the house and opens the garage with the set of keys he found on the dresser. He’s expecting to find some flashy car like the Bentley Hannibal had driven in Baltimore but what he finds is more of an upgrade of the decades old station wagon he’d driven himself. It’s black, because of course it is, mini-SUV and looks like it was bought used. Plenty of storage is the first thought that crosses his mind and he bats it away quickly. He doesn’t recognize the make of the car but when he pops the hood he decides he likes what he sees and everything is where it should be. He even checks the oil and washer fluid and decides this vessel is seaworthy.

When he settles into it he thinks of the last time he was behind the wheel of a car. It would have been the rental he’d had during the Dolarhyde case, a rental that he’d insisted on getting because he insisted on not relying on Jack and the FBI for transportation. Granted, he did get plenty of rides anyway. Mostly with Jack and totally because Jack wanted to keep an eye on him. Jack has decent instincts, Will has to give him that, but he ignores them the instant there seems to be a good reason to.

Really, who would have let Will ride with Hannibal that day? It painted a great picture for the press but that could have been accomplished another way. He could not be trusted alone with Hannibal and everyone knew it. Jack had taken a chance, bet on the part of Will’s nature that responded to his intimidation, and hoped that his directive that Will needed to kill Hannibal would stick. 

Will knows that Jack has his doubts, even knowing that Will has been declared dead and that a memorial service had happened (which Will bet no one had attended), but he has no idea how to act on them. At best, he may be hanging around Florence hoping for the best.

He hopes, for Jack’s sake, he lets them be dead. 

=====================================================================

Serge Lellouche rescues him at the general store, or what Will would call a general store.

Serge is from Algeria originally and owns said store. He’s lived in Petit Ardon for thirteen years now and Will quickly discovers that Serge is actually his closest neighbour, which is not saying much. It takes Will ten minutes to drive north into town and if he’d decided to drive twenty minutes south instead he’d hit Serge’s front gate. Despite the distance, his presence has been noticed. 

Will himself has not been very active and it’s not like anyone can see what’s going on overmuch from the road but lights on in a house that’s been sitting empty for years tell people enough and word travels fast. Fortunately no one seems to recognize him, Will hadn’t had thought about trying to hide himself a bit better but, again, figured that the more obvious he went the more obvious he’d be. He’d have to rely on the remoteness, which seems to be working. No one has questioned anything. 

He’d done well at the market, which initially had him worried since he’d have to engage in a lot more conversation than he was used to when getting groceries. No one comments on his accent and the nice lady who sells him some fruit even slows down a bit for him without him even asking. The butcher is a bit less patient but doesn’t switch to English or make things overly difficult. After that mildly discouraging encounter a man his own age tells him he sounds fine and that the guy is just being an asshole. “Je vous comprends très bien. Aussi bien que vous comprends moi, oui?”

And he does. He’s having far less trouble understanding here than he did in the hospital. There’s some speed issues and he does have to ask once or twice to have something repeated but mostly everyone is fine with repeating themselves. His confidence is no longer borrowed or faked; he feels it. 

That is until he hits the general store and ends up trapped in small talk. Apparently he’s wandered into the local gossip meet up and it seems, of course, that the clutch of middle aged women hanging out at the front of the store were just talking about the old Vanier place having someone living in it again. Will doesn’t know who ‘Vanier’ is or was but once they focus on him Will realises that the Vanier place is the house he’s living in and they were talking about him. Will’s problems with small talk notwithstanding, he has never taken well to interrogation and that’s really what this is. It’s well meaning and curious but Will’s never been the type of person to just casually share everything about his life because someone asks him. Especially if he doesn’t know how best to answer given his current state. He confirms where he lives since that’s beyond hiding and confirms that he’s on the mend. When he’s asked about the cane and his limp he just says that he took a bad fall and tries to get back to business, politely but clumsily declining offers to carry things for him. He’s going to have to take multiple trips to the car and back, has already done one at the market, and he really doesn’t want to have to leave here and circle back once the crowd has dispersed.

Just as Will is resigning himself to having to do just that he notices the tall, deceptively thin (deceptively thin in that Will knows he is definitely all muscle underneath the tight t-shirt and well worn blue jeans), dark-skinned man who was behind the counter before approaching the group. He gives Will a “don’t worry, I’ve got this” look as he joins them and slips into the conversation with practiced ease. Before Will knows it the women have scattered, leaving him with tutting apologies, hopes to see him later, and a bunch of names and business cards. He says he’ll let them know if he needs anything.

“Merci beaucoup,” Will sighs as Serge chuckles.

“They mean well,” Serge responds in perfect English. “The last newcomer was me and that was a very long time ago.” His smile is blinding and easy. He holds out his hand and introduces himself. Will barely remembers to introduce himself as Matt; it occurs to him that the women had never bothered to ask for his name.

“They’ll know soon enough.” Serge nods toward two of them across the road, who then quickly break apart like a flock of birds fleeing an approaching car. “News travels fast here. It is a good thing but it takes some time to get used to.”

Will hopes Serge is right, hopes that Hannibal doesn’t see nosiness as rudeness, and makes a few mental notes to be better prepared for next time. When Will doesn’t comment further Serge shifts back to business “do you need any help finding anything? Outside of my store?”

It’s out of self preservation that Will ends up accepting Serge’s offer of a tour around town. Serge tucks Will’s purchases behind the counter and leaves his partner, Marisol, in charge and calls it an early lunch break for him. At Will’s request the two of them switch back to speaking French. Serge makes no effort to slow his speech, which Will appreciates. Will learns the location of several important landmarks like the post office and the sporting goods store. He’s told which cafes to avoid (there are many and no restaurants), when is the best time to get to market, and it ends in Will treating Serge to lunch because, really, that’s the least he can do right now. 

The place Serge directs them to is called Mathilde’s. Mathilde and her husband Albert are both in their seventies and they bought the cafe eons ago when they were first married. They had originally named it something proper but Serge can’t remember what it was and no one else bothered too either. It was always thought of as Mathilde’s place and that’s what it would be known as forever. The two main are waited upon by Mathilde’s granddaughter, Lily, and she says she plans to actually replace the faded, illegible sign, to read “Chez Mathilde” once she inherits the store.

“Pourqoui tu penses que c’est pour toi?”  Albert teases from behind the counter.

Lily rolls her eyes fondly at an old argument.  “Parce-que sans moi tu ne serrais pas quoi faire!” There are only three other paying customers in at the time and the whole store laughs. Will has to smile and laugh along too, as if he himself has been privy to this joke for as long as this girl has been alive.

There’s a camaraderie in this town, an easy one and one that Will wouldn’t be opposed to being apart of. Not deep in the middle of things as it seem Serge is despite his distance from the town but at little part of it. This village protects their own and Will can see himself becoming quite protective of this little town if the rudest people are only a little too nosy for their own good. That will die down the more often he comes into town, too. 

“How long did it take for them to stop bothering you?” Will asks after he finishes his sandwich. It really is a great meal and the coffee is second only to Hannibal’s. He switches the conversation to English completely on accident but Serge stays with the change.

“A few weeks,” he admits. “And they saw me all the time. I had to renovate that whole building. All of it! I bought it a year before I could afford to come here myself. Same for you?”

Why not. Will nods. “We bought the property a few years ago,” Will spins. “My friend was hoping to move out here sooner than we actually have.”

“So you’re staying?” Serge asks, hopeful. 

“For a while anyway, we’re hoping permanently.” Will confirms. Hannibal could have plans to move them to Antarctica for all he knows but Will has decided he likes it here, no matter how long it takes the locals to warm up to him and then warm up to Hannibal. He’s leaving a lot of choices in Will’s hands and Will is deciding that Ardon is home now. He has a feeling that Hannibal will not object.

“Depends on your friend’s business?” There’s almost a wink buried in the voice there and Will pretends not to acknowledge it. Will agrees more or less and turns the discussion back to fishing permits. The knowing smile remains in his eyes as he asks about why he decided to stay in the house instead somewhere closer to town, or even Orleans. “It would be easier and there would be less walking,” he pointed out as he indicated Will’s cane.

Will shrugs. “I like being alone up there.” He greatly appreciates that Hannibal and Chiyoh had respected the fact that he’d be better recovering here than in an apartment in Orleans or Paris. God, he’d so much rather be here and managing on his own. “The cane will be gone soon anyway.” He’s going to keep it with him on longer trips but he’s going to try brace only in the house from now on. Or at least he hopes to. His leg is not impressed with him at the moment and he still has physio to put himself through later. He rummages an aspirin out of his pocket and swallows it dry.

“Ça va?” Serge asks. Lily comes by and asks if they want dessert. Serge says yes but make it to go. He orders them each a bit of chocolate cake with the promise that it’s to die for. “Ca va?” he asks again.

Will nods. “Ça va.” 

It’s bizarre to actually say that and mean it, he finds.

=====================================================================

Will places an order for some fly tying gear at the sporting goods store with Serge’s help and ends up re-buying all of his fishing essentials, wardrobe included. He picks up some more books along with the groceries and is introduced the local doctor completely by accident as Serge is helping him load up his car. She’s impressed at his progress and says he must be very stubborn. Serge assures him that was a compliment and she nods her head curtly in agreement. “Les gens tenaces accomplir des choses.”

Or don’t, Will clarifies but doesn’t say that out loud.

Serge invites him over for dinner but Will declines. When Serge offers him his number Will remembers that he doesn’t have a phone. He follows Serge back to to the general store where he picks up a pay as you go flip phone and watches as Serge programs his number into it. “Texte lorsque vous etes pret, oui?” It means a lot to Will that Serge doesn’t insist upon his presence, that he acknowledges that for whatever the reason he’d prefer to engage with others on his own terms. Serge doesn’t ask for Will’s number and Will doesn’t offer it.

As Will drives off he finds himself actually thinking about texting him one day. Not any time soon, maybe when Hannibal gets back, but it’s nice to have met an understanding fellow outsider. Serge had known there was something that Will wasn’t saying but was certainly not about to pry, had understood Will’s behaviours if not the reason why. He didn’t care anyway, it wasn’t his business. They’re both foreigners, both preferring to observe things before acting, both preferring to keep to themselves but also genuinely wanting to help someone out. Will’s glad to find that part of himself hasn’t changed.

Getting everything unloaded and put away, except for the fishing gear which he leaves in the car, takes a lot of time and a lot of effort but he is pleased that he’s managed to do it himself and that he doesn’t feel like passing out after he finishes. He does not, however, feel like climbing the stairs at this juncture so settles in with one of the books he bought and finds a classical music playlist online to stream for background noise.

He is not lonely. Not at this moment. It does not mean that he does not miss Hannibal Lecter because he certainly does. He’d missed him for three years and had refused to acknowledge it. Throwing them off the cliff and surviving meant he wasn’t going ignore these feelings anymore. He missed Hannibal and if he was going to try and pretend he was around by listening to Mendelsohn then that was exactly what he was going to do.

====================================================================

Cutting out one’s heart is hard work. Remaining conscious is an issue, drugs help this but it is still a struggle. Prying open one’s own ribs is a task worthy of an Olympic event, the Will Graham part of his mind observes. Especially when you’re doing it to yourself and expecting to walk away.

Hannibal allows that being incarcerated with the only exercise regime being his own modest, and limited, morning routine may not have been sufficient for essentially immediately returning to homicidal practice so to speak. Especially after recovering from several injuries.

He decides that now would be an appropriate time to lower the pair of them to their knees, his doppelganger and himself. “Neužmigti!” he sharply snaps at the former. He finally, finally breaks through and grabs what he wants and tears it out. He almost can feel everything through his doppelganger's back. He almost even feels the final few beats of the the heart in hands that aren’t his. His thoughts though, as has become usual, are elsewhere. 

It has been one week since he had last seen Will Graham. Nearly three weeks since he’d last seen him awake and aware. The two states of being often tangled when he tried to think of him. He’d see Will as he had that night on the bluff, covered in blood, wounded but oh so very alive, and so very beautiful. Then he’d change into a fevered and confused Will or a dead Will under his hands as he worked to revive him. He saw Will shuddering with nightmares and visions of things he had endured and things he had not and nothing Hannibal could do could make them go away. The best he could do was be near him in those times. The visions rarely stopped when Hannibal took his hand or cradled him in his arms but he would often quiet and become less frantic. 

Sometimes the visions turned into Will searching for Hannibal, which had ended rather poorly one night, and that was almost worse. Will knew he was close but couldn’t reach him and Hannibal could not convince him that he was not alone. 

Hannibal will take some credit for the first resuscitation but not for the two that followed during the crossing. Will’s body had given up, not Will himself. He had come back to Hannibal easily and willingly when he’d offered his help. When he knew, somewhere, that Hannibal was in fact there with him. The world has more meaning, and more interest, with Will in it and that is the very least he can ask no matter what he finds in France. Whether it is a Will waiting for him with open arms, a sharp blade, or whether he just finds an empty house. Will is awake and out of his cocoon; what he does now is even further beyond Hannibal’s ken than it ever was.

He pockets the knife, he’ll dispose of it later, and regards what is going to be seen as his last kill. It is beautiful as much as it is lonely. He takes a moment to give thanks that this not the world he lives in - Will Graham is alive and well and thus so is he - but had things been forced to go another way this would be the only possible conclusion that would bring any sort of peace. He thinks he’s been a touch optimistic in the length of time that has passed before this perceived action.

Hannibal straightens his shoulders, winces as his bullet wound objects, and just manages to refrain from touching his work. This is not a death he would have chosen for himself, but for the story he means to tell it is logical. No one will be surprised.

He resists the urge to try and better his work but swallows it down. He turns his back and leaves the room. He leaves Hannibal Lecter behind him. A few hours more and it will be the end of it.

He’s been away too long as it is and there is still one place yet to go. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Je vous comprends très bien. Aussi bien que vous comprends moi, oui?_ = ”I understand you very well. Just as well as you understand me, yes
> 
>  _Merci beaucoup_ = Thank you very much
> 
>  _Pourqoui tu penses que c’est pour toi?_ = Why do you think you’re getting it?
> 
>  _Parce-que sans moi tu ne serrais pas quoi faire!_ = Because without me you wouldn’t know what to do!
> 
>  _Ça va?_ = Alright?
> 
>  _Les gens tenaces accomplir des choses_ = Stubborn people accomplish things
> 
>  _Texte lorsque vous etes pret, oui?_ = Text when you're ready, yes?
> 
> and the flyby Lithuanian should mean "Stay awake". My apologies if the internet has lied to me.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) I am so late, forgive me! Combination of life getting in the way and deciding to merge two short chapters into one long one. I hope this is worth the delay.
> 
> 2) Possible trigger warning: Will does his crime scene thing and things get a bit graphic with blood and stuff.

Will has done his best since waking up in the hospital to not seek Hannibal out in his head, or memory palace as the man himself would call it. Him, or anyone else, or anything else as much as possible. If anything has called for him to be fully present it is his life as it is now. His choice to avoid using the cane while at home and just rely on a brace is also helpful in that is very hard to let your mind wander too far when you’re either feeling pain from strain, pain from your circulation being cut off, or just the act of monitoring yourself to see if you should considering going back for your cane.

When he checks the news on the tablet this particular day he reads the headline and then immediately checks the URL after. He refreshes the page. He checks multiple, reliable sources and reads variations of the same thing. When the headlines continue to read some iteration of INFAMOUS CANNIBAL FOUND DEAD he finds himself reciting Hannibal’s grounding technique without even meaning to. He’d known this was coming but that doesn’t seem to matter right now. 

“It is 10:07 am. My name is Will Graham, I’m somewhere outside of Ardon, France and Hannibal Lecter is not dead.”

He repeats the mantra three more times, closes his eyes, and goes looking for Hannibal. He immediately finds him in his Baltimore office, sitting at his desk like nothing is wrong. Will can tell however that Hannibal is surprised to see him. Surprised but pleased. He’s closing his daytimer and is about to speak, probably to make some quip about missing his appointments, but Will beats him to it.“You’re alive,” he almost accuses.

Hannibal is dressed as he was when Will first met him - tan jacket, white shirt, blue vest, grey slacks. He raises an eyebrow that screams _‘of course I am, you idiot’_ but only actually says “Of course.” He rises, smoothing out the creases in his pants as he does so. As though he has been sitting there for some time. “I did tell you that suicide was the enemy.”

That’s the only thing that screams out that this isn’t real. When Will had been able to get past the headline the word ‘suicide’ had popped up within the first paragraph in pretty much all of the articles. That he’d done it by carving out his own heart followed later. “You’re off Interpol’s and the FBI’s most wanted lists,” Will counters. He almost mentions the multiple confirmed, reputable sources, but Will trusts to FBI list above that. “They don’t just do that.” They really don’t. It could be a trick to smoke them out.

”You don’t believe that,” Hannibal replies smoothly to the unvoiced thought. “It is hardly my fault that they are less than observant and eager to believe the narrative I wish them to.” He comes around the desk, moving slowly as if not to spook him. “It is the truth after all. We are dead. The both of us.”

Will nods tightly. He shuts his eyes for a moment and takes a breath. Hannibal reaches out for him, pauses before actually cupping Will’s face with both hands until Will barely blinks his consent. “If there is a universe where I have killed you I can assure you this would be the inevitable result” he tells him. Will can almost watch that progression in his mind’s eye. Hannibal had been angry in Florence. Blind with anger, heartache, and betrayal. He would have regretted killing Will the second after he accomplished it. 

Will nods again, acknowledging that he sees and not acknowledging Hannibal’s hands beyond the fact that they’re helping him focus. “As it would with me,” Will whispers in kind. It would be quiet and less dramatic. No one would ever find him but it would happen all the same. 

“I wanted to them to know I was dead,” Hannibal gently chides. “It is my design.” The two share a smirk as Hannibal moves his hands from Will’s face to his shoulders. “Go on,” he urges. “I am always here in this place for you, Will, but I live still. And I will be returning to you.” Will can hear the _if you will have me_ that Hannibal doesn’t voice. Will nods his understanding, knowing Hannibal hears his answering, also unvoiced, _I’ll be waiting._

He leaves Hannibal’s office, politely closing the door behind him, but doesn’t go back to the couch. Instead he wanders the hallways of Quantico, of the BSHCI, until he finds what he’s looking for. An empty room with a body in the middle of it. The body is face down on the hardwood floor. The only sign that something is amiss is the pool of blood coming out from underneath him and the shrivelled lump that was once a human heart clenched tightly in his right fist. 

Will gently turns the body over. As he does so the clothing, skin, and hair, of the victim burn away until it is a burned husk of a skeleton lying there. The heart, somehow, is still red and bloody and clenched tightly in the bone fingers. The blood from the makeshift surgery also remains.

The place had been torched, he observes Not immediately and not totally, some DNA had to remain to confirm the death. He looks back at the body, at the shattered rib cage and thinks about how the hell Hannibal would have convinced this person to cut out his own heart. It is an unnecessary question: Hannibal could persuade anyone into doing anything given adequate time. This becomes a question of whether Hannibal carved the man’s heart out himself or whether he played puppeteer. 

The scene changes, rewinds, and the man is alive again. Or at least alive for now as first he sees Hannibal, in his clear plastic suit, standing behind the victim and getting to work. Depending on how Will looks, it’s Hannibal’s hands doing the work or its Hannibal using the victim’s hands to do this. Will decides upon the latter as he watches, dispassionately, as Hannibal performs a heart removal blind and partly on his knees.

There isn’t much fight given on the victim’s side of things. He’s looking at the burnt husk in the processed crime scene now. Drugs, Will has to allow. A necessary aide in this case. Hannibal would have preferred to it without, and probably would have had he actually done this to himself, but he decides that his stand in can be allowed a bit of tender mercy. Will wonders how long that man knew that his employment would end in his being a corpse. What was his reward? Or more accurately what was the reward that he would leave for another to collect?

Somewhere deep within him he feels the horror at what he’s witnessed but it’s a horror that belongs to a Will Graham who actually has to live, albeit not for long, with the fact that Hannibal has killed himself. The man’s fate is unfortunate but both likely consensual in some way (if you play, you pay) and necessary. Hannibal is free now in the same way that Will is. He almost laughs at the joy of it. Hannibal is right. The FBI are thrilled that they have this proof to go along with a narrative that makes sense as much as anything involving the two of them. They’ve destroyed each other; as they very well might one day.

Will kneels down by the heart. It has stayed constant throughout the different scene changes he’s put this scene through. He reaches out and gently takes it out of the corpse’s hand. “You can trust me,” he says as he cradles it in his hand. When he looks back down the corpse is replaced by Hannibal as Will last remembers seeing him, covered in blood and smiling. 

“I always did,” Hannibal tells him.

Will pockets the heart and reaches into his own chest without preamble, pulling his own out in one swift move. He grimaces slightly, as if he’s just bumped into something. Hannibal meets him halfway to take it as he offers it. “You can trust me,” Hannibal promises.

“I always did.” Will grasps Hannibal’s heart out of his pocket with his other hand and shoves it into his chest.

When Will blinks he’s back on the couch. The tablet has fallen to the floor and his hand is gripping his chest. For a moment he wonders if he’s having a heart attack but he really just has been holding on that tight. 

It takes him nearly fifteen minutes to manage standing up without needing to sit right back down. His heart racing as if trying to escape out of his ribcage before slowly, finally, accepting defeat.

=====================================================================

Will had taken up running after Hannibal’s trial. It was psychologically obvious, yes, but it was so for a reason. He’d always managed to clear his head, albeit, temporarily while trying to keep his legs moving and dodging obstacles and his own thoughts. It was doubly effective if he took a dog or two out with him. The fact that the habit had increased into morning regularity, something that had only reinforced Will’s delusion that he was succeeding at normalcy, while married to Molly should have been a warning sign. 

Going for a run is not an option for him right now. His leg can’t take it, of course, and there’s a prickling feeling that his heart wouldn’t be able to take it either even though he knows the vision was a vision and far from literal. He knows that everything is fine (ish) and that the fact that everyone is convinced that both him and Hannibal are dead, Will still can’t get over that the FBI took him off their Most Wanted list so fast, means Hannibal will be coming back soon. He’s likely not hoping the next flight and very likely taking a long way around but he’ll be here. Will knows that beyond a shadow of a doubt. 

It doesn’t help his nerves. It doesn’t help the dissonance he feels between what he knows and what everyone else ‘knows’. It doesn’t make the need for a run any less powerful. A drive will have to suffice, he decides after an hour and a half of nervous pacing and failed attempts to distract himself.

The weather is still good, distinctly more spring like than it has been lately, and the winding roads and non existent traffic are almost as soothing behind the wheel as they would be if he were running. The fact that it’s a beautifully sunny day and Will has suddenly noticed that the car has a moonroof add to the effect.

As he drives by a river, he can’t remember the name of it yet, and spots a few casual fisherman at various points along the bank he remembers the gear he’d bought in the trunk and the brand new fishing license in the glove box. Apparently, Petit Ardon has the authority to sign its own licenses instead of sending them to Ardon proper. Will has no complaints. He drives a bit further along, giving the other fisherman some space, and drives right up to the bank. It seems that the others have done the same and, quite frankly, the less Will has to walk the better. Will can’t even remember the last time he went fishing. He must have at least gone ice fishing before Jack had smoked him out of Maine. He remembers going for a run with the dogs that morning, as was typical, but can’t dredge up a fishing trip in recent memory. That’s a first.

_We are long, long overdue in that case._

Will tightens up his brace, slips into his gear, and stubbornly manages to get to the shore with his rod and a plastic lure in one trip. After a moment resting against a nearby tree he very, very carefully wades into the water. He hasn’t bought bait or made any lures so he doesn’t expect to actually catch anything. That’s not the point. He just wants a distraction. He wants to think about nothing but fishing and his leg not giving out. Besides, he’s not prepared to bring anything back home anyway. 

Home. It’s definitely the first time he’s called the house that. Will smiles, grits his teeth, and casts. His balance holds and his shoulder gives him a flash of warning but plays along. He’d gone easy and not overhand afterall.

It’s just what he needed. Will lets his mind ebb and flow with the water as it moves and barely moves along with the gentle breeze. He allows himself to get lost in the motions of casting and reeling and casting. He doesn’t let his mind conjure his spot in Wolf Trap, Abigail stays at a respectful distance, and he just does what he does. His heart, finally, properly settles. It’s about an hour before he comes out it thanks to a warning twinge from his leg. If he doesn’t move now he’s going to end up sitting in the river and not gently, it says. With a sigh of relief more than resignation, Will cautiously makes his way back to shore. He sits on the grass, scoots up close to his cane and away from the water to wriggle out of his boots and waders. He unstraps his brace and rests that beside him as well. He swears he can feel the leg sigh in relief along with him.

Will lays back on the riverbank, shuts his eyes, and lets himself bask in the comfortable sunlight. It shouldn’t be this easy to clear his head, a part of him whispers. There should be something there. He’s never this relaxed once he’s out of the water. 

”Things have changed,” he says aloud and settles into an almost doze. He’s earned this. This sweet and easy peace.

Those four words are delivered in Hannibal’s voice and Will resists the urge to do something drastic. The spectre of Hannibal is polite to a fault even in his own thoughts and doesn’t raises an objection or make his presence otherwise known as Will guides himself to Wolf Trap. Wolf Trap on the day he’d taken position, long before all of this. It looks much the same as it did on the day he’d left it; he’d bought the house as it was after all. There were plenty of things that he had no practical use for but he’d adopted them into his like the same way he’d adopted strays. At the thought of his pack he hears the sound of barking dogs.

Strike that, one dog. One dog and it’s in reality, not in his head. Will opens his eyes. The bark even sounds familiar. He’s just sat himself up and is about to turn around before he hears the rush of four legs through grass and then the mutt is upon him, pushing him back down to the ground in his excitement, Will’s cry of “Winston!” leaving him as air and nothing else. 

He’s assaulted with kisses and snuggles and he returns the affection with petting and hugs and a kiss of his own to the top of Winston’s head. Maybe he’s insane, he thinks as he repeats Winton’s name over and over and finally hugs him to him for a long few moments. Winston’s real, he decides then. He’s not hallucinating; this is his dog, he smells dog breath, and this is definitely real. “How did you get here, buddy?” he asks Winston as if he can answer. “How did you get here, huh?”

Winston yips and wiggles out of Will’s embrace and looks up and something behind him. Will pushes himself up and cranks his head back to see what Winston’s looking at. 

Or rather who, he clarifies as he watches Chiyoh walk toward him. She is looking the most casual that Will has ever seen her, which is still saying too little. Her black hair is tied back in a braid, which is hanging over one shoulder. Her military-esque jacket has been traded for a less severe fake leather bomber jacket. Her jeans look worn from actual use as opposed to pre worn for fashion’s sake and she’s wearing a wearing a pair of well loved running shoes. She looks like a mostly local local taking her dog out for a walk.

Winston trots off to meet her as reaches the car, her own is pulled over off the side of the road. Chiyoh rewards him with a treat from out of her jean pocket. “It’s one of yours,” she tells Will as Winston gobbles it down the second it’s near his mouth. He sniffs eagerly around her pockets, hoping that he can convince her into giving him more. He won’t jump up on her though; Will has trained him better than that.

“So you’ve been to the house?” Will asks. He’s surprised there’s any of his last batch remaining. He doesn’t think Molly would have been up to making a new one once she’d got out of the hospital. He doesn’t think Molly would have gone back to the house at all.

“Did they get a good price for it?” It’s an important question. Will doesn’t know if the FBI will give Molly anything for his death in the field and he wonders if the life insurance company is going to argue for invalidation due to suicide. He did throw himself off a cliff; the fact that he was later murdered and likely cannibalized is a side issue.

“It has not yet sold,” Chiyoh replies. Will waves to the empty patch of grass beside him. f she reaches for a needle he has no problems testing out the balance of his cane as either a stabbing or bludgeoning weapon. It takes two waves for her to eventually take a seat, Winston huddling between them. “There is some perverse interest in the property but no serious buyers,” she continues. “Your wife has removed what little she wanted to take with her.”

The house is being sold as is then. Will is not surprised. He wonders who will be the person who takes a walk around their abandoned lives, listens to the realtor tell them about the stories about who had lived here before, and decides to take it all into their life. At least the story that the realtor gets to tell is a colourful one. Will hopes she enjoys telling it a lot. 

“She’s not my wife,” Will finds himself saying without meaning to. “She’s a widow but I was never really her husband.”

Chiyoh doesn’t contest that. “The rest of the pack were given to good homes. Winston I was told to adopt and bring to you.”

There’s a bit of Will’s heart that crumbles to dust, a very relieved dust, at hearing Chiyoh speak of being told to do things. Chiyoh, to the best of Will’s understanding, didn’t know about his dogs or about which one held a special place in his heart. She also certainly wouldn’t have gone back to the states to bring one back with her out of her own kindness. He’s amazed that even Hannibal would ask Chiyoh to do it at all. Or told, Will amends..

”He’s alive then?”

Chiyoh glares at him. “Do not be obtuse. You knew that already.”

“Confirmation is nice.”

“And the dog, yes?”

Will laughs and absently rubs Winston’s belly. The dog has settled on his other side, head lying across his thigh and blissing out both in being outdoors, Will can only imagine how long Winston has to have been kept locked away, and in being back with his favourite human. “And the dog,” Will agrees. “Thank you both. Very much. I am sorry he put you on dog detail though.”

Chiyoh attempts a shrug. “He is not a poor travelling companion. In fact, he’s one of the better ones I’ve ever had.”

“Thank you for not pushing him off a train.”

Chiyoh lets out a resigned sigh. She’s been waiting for that to be brought up. Will had never let it go before and he won’t until Chiyoh stops reacting to it. “And we still exist in that moment, even now?”

“Being pushed off of a train in the middle of the night in a foreign country and wandering around with a probable concussion for a day and a bit definitely sticks out for me.” It’s a miracle he hadn’t been run over by another train, he doesn’t add. Mostly because he knows full well that Chiyoh had done it with calculation and without homicidal intent. It’s beside the point, though. 

Chiyoh is starting to get wise to this and is having none of it. “And yet you pieced your shaken brain and cracked skull together with nothing but stubbornness and stupidity and found your way to his side without any help from me. Who has trained who well?”

Will has to give her that one even if training isn’t the word that he’d use. It isn’t even the word that Hannibal would use. Not even then when he’d been heartbroken and angry and Will had been confused and lonely. Confused not only on feelings and course of action but just all around…

_what were you thinking when you decided to stab him right there? Right in the middle of fucking Florence when you knew you weren’t thinking straight and what the everloving hell is with you? You knew you’d end up on his dinner plate for that, you knew it. Was that what you wanted? Him to kill you, regret it, then kill himself over you?_

__

...all around all over the place. No clue what he wanted or how best to get it. Muddled. Addled. He needs to say something in response to that but he can’t think of anything. He can’t let that go but he can’t think of anything better than _trained us both_ and that’s just inadequate. He also should take this moment to say something about the fact that she fucking shot him in Florence, too. He knows he’s done that one before too and Chiyoh had never taken the bait on that particular event.

If Chiyoh hadn’t shot him when she did one of the both of them would be dead. Both eventually to be sure but all in all he is grateful for being shot. Even if it meant the bonesaw and Muskrat Farm. Will backpeddles as quick as he can out of that snakepit of bad memories and associations but he can’t escape it all. He thinks about it from Hannibal’s point of view for the first time, everything from the Primavera to the surrender in Wolf Trap. 

Why does Hannibal even bother with him, aside from the fact that he can’t _not_ bother with him. If he had a choice would he have walked away earlier? Let him rot in prison? Gutted him properly in his kitchen?

Could he be preparing to leave now? He could easily do it. Leave Will here in comfort and walk away to start anew somewhere else. Far away and alone. 

Will knows he’s past that. They’re both past that and if both of them had the choice they’d choose each other every time. They’ve both demonstrated that to a fault. It doesn’t stop vision from being spotty when he opens his eyes and it doesn’t stop his heart hammering and his breathing beginning to hitch. Will slams his eyes shut, grips his hands in the dirt, and works through the grounding exercises Hannibal had taught him a lifetime ago. His breathing starts to even back out. Good, he thinks, remembering Chiyoh’s silent presence. He has no desire to have a panic attack in front of her. He inhales sharply and works to keep his breathing regular. He doesn’t need to have a panic attack in front of Chiyoh. 

Winston has been whimpering, he realises. Winston has rolled over and rested his head on Will’s lap, looking up at him with obvious distress. As he soothes his dog, Chiyoh’s palm appears in his line of sight. A very familiar pill is sitting in the middle of it. “Ativan,” she explains needlessly. “He said you wouldn’t have any on you if I found you not at home.”

Of course Hannibal knew the effect this would all have on him. Of course he would. He can’t be here himself - can’t, Will reminds himself. It’s not won’t, it’s can’t - so he’s doing the best he can to help him. He has sent him his dog, something he may have done anyway, and sent him Chiyoh. Chiyoh and him may not be best friends but they can at least speak to each other without pretense. Or false names.

“I can’t take it. I have to drive.” He’d left his glasses behind and he was supposed to wear those when driving but yet here he was. He just doesn’t want to dose in front of Chiyoh either.

Chiyoh nods, the pill vanishing into her jacket pocket. She stares at the river, pensive for a moment. “Does it help to know that I saw him the next day?” She doesn’t need to get any more specific. “He was alive and well and sitting as close to me as you are now.”

It does. It helps him immensely and tries to play off the magnitude of the relief as best as he can but Chiyoh’s sudden smile is knowing and warm. It’s genuine and Will doesn’t know how to deal with it.“You two deserve each other,” she continues. “I am unable to initiate contact with him, for my safety as well as his. It is unfortunate, he is as eager for news of you are you are for news of him.” 

That surprises him. “He doesn’t know?” He knew there was no surveillance on the property but he half expects eyes somewhere reporting back to Hannibal about how he’s doing. It slowly dawns on him what he must have looked like the last time Hannibal saw him. “He last saw me…”

“You were in the hospital and comatose,” Chiyoh finishes. She re-ties her laces and unzips her jacket a bit, fighting with the wool of her sweater as she does so. “A marked improvement to your state before then but you know which memories would be the loudest and brightest.”

Will gets a flash, two flashes actually, of heat tinged memory. He sees shadows and death coming for him and can hear himself screaming. Next he feels a warmth around him and what part of him acknowledges has to be Hannibal’s voice telling him he’s safe. A comforting pressure which should be comforting pressure follows but he struggles anyway because but he doesn’t want it. Because Hannibal isn’t there. 

_I am. I promise you. Hear me, Will. Please. I am with you. ___

Will blinks back into awareness and finds that he’s sweating and his leg is cramping. He shifts around a little bit and Winston sits up to huddle into his side. “Thanks, buddy,” he says quietly. He looks back at Chiyoh. “It was bad?”

For the first time Chiyoh does not look at him when she speaks. “I was not there for all of it. What I did see was...distressing. Even for me who…”

“Who doesn’t like me as much as he does.”

Chiyoh nods. “Neither of you were yourselves. You are still not and you never will be again.”

Will snorts out a laugh and reaches out for his brace. “We’re dead, remember?” He straps his brace on, grabs the cane and pushes himself up. He’s grateful that Chiyoh makes no move to help him. Chiyoh looks up at him and Will sighs. They may be stuck in that moment on the train in Will’s world but Chiyoh is still stuck in a few different ones that lead up to three things: that he is a risk to Hannibal, a weakness to Hannibal, and something that just shouldn’t be allowed to be. “We are what we are, Chiyoh.” He isn’t apologizing, he _won’t_ apologize, but this is the best he can do.

Chiyoh picks herself up off the ground and begins gathering up Will’s fishing supplies. “I know,” she agrees as she bats Will away from trying to help. “I can only hope you don’t destroy him...or yourself.” She adds the last part after a moment of internal debate. Will is touched. 

“I think we’re past that.” They’ve tried it, it doesn’t stick. 


	8. Chapter Eight

Will had learned to cook as soon as he was tall enough to reach the stove and his father could trust him to not burn the place down. He has cooked with ingredients he’s bought, ingredients he’s grown or caught himself, and ingredients he has definitely stolen. He’s also had to work with plenty as well as nothing and considered himself pretty good at dealing with either situation. The results were not always tasty but you had to to do what you had to do and work with what you had to get by. Will had learned that before he learned to walk.

He is nearly forty years old. He has spent the vast majority of his life alone or as good as and he has obviously managed to not die of starvation. Even when money had been nonexistent for months at a time. He doesn’t know where this idea that he is utterly helpless in a kitchen came from. Sometime after Hannibal, he suspects, but everyone looked like a toddler in the kitchen in comparison to Hannibal. No one else had people asking after their nutrition or looking deeply concerned when he spoke about making something however.

Whatever the origin it was incredibly annoying; he’d forgotten how much until Chiyoh had barely managed to hide concern when Will asked her to stay for dinner. 

Will supposes he should be grateful for Chiyoh wanting to help him with anything by her own choice but he cannot abide it. Especially given his current difficulties.

“You can bring up the skillet but that’s the only help I’ll take,” he concedes finally as he finishes cutting up some peppers. He’s making beef stir fry because that what he was planning to do anyway. “Have a seat.” We waves his knife at the island. “If I want help, I’ll ask for it.” He won’t. They both know it but Will takes Chiyoh sitting down after setting the skillet on the stove and setting herself down at the kitchen island as a victory. Will ignores her as he finishes chopping vegetables, inwardly daring her to even try to reach for the garlic or offer to start with the beef. 

He doesn’t often cook for guests let alone an audience. Aside from trading off meal preparation with Molly the last time Will had cooked for company was...he smiles to himself and offers no explanation to Chiyoh as he moves to the garlic.

The last time Will had cooked for guests had been Christmas. That hadn’t been all that long ago and that realisation makes it feel even longer. That being said, Will wonders that if he were to ask his December self his opinion on his change of circumstances whether he’d actually be surprised or disappointed. Especially considering that Christmas dinner.

Will had never put on a Christmas dinner before, had barely been invited to any. That hadn’t bothered him when he thought he would just be entertaining Molly and Wally. He had offered to do it and he’d actually wanted to do it. It was what proper husbands did, right? It had all been fine until Molly had invited her parents for dinner and Will hadn’t had the sense to say no. 

The Fosters hadn’t liked him since day one but it was a distaste that Will was familiar with. The reasons were just enhanced this time around by what Will knew they knew about him. He’d never challenged them, never spoke more than he absolutely had to, and otherwise endured them quietly no matter what comments he overheard. He wanted to be normal and having in-laws who hated him seemed pretty normal to him. They certainly have found more reasons to hate him now. 

There were many signs of things to come, Will found, as he examined the final year or so of his life without Hannibal that screamed that things were coming to a boiling point. Christmas was an especially obvious one but Will’s skills at burying his head in the sand and denying anything was wrong were untouchable when he set his mind to it. At first everyone had been cordial as the season dictated, then the Fosters just couldn’t help themselves. Anything and everything was up for criticism from the state of the house, the clothes Will wore, the activities that the three of them failed to do, the inadequate trips to Oregon to see them...it was never ending. 

Will can’t remember what had finally set him off. He knew it hadn’t been something original or something he hadn’t heard before. It was somewhere between the comment about keeping animals in the house and the amazingly witty and totally original comment about what kind of meat would be served, he knew that much. Again, nothing new or inventive but that had been it. Will had been on his best behaviour from the moment he’d met Molly; he’d behaved himself long enough. 

He’d held nothing back except for the fact that he was not as drunk as everyone assumed he was. He kept a glass constantly in hand but topped off with more water than whiskey. He’d been his usual, antagonistic self and still managed to keep Molly on his side because he ‘wasn’t himself.’ Will had never apologized to the Fosters and had never told Molly that that was the most himself had been in her presence since the day he’d met her. Molly hadn’t spoken to him for a few days but everything had turned out fine because of course it had. They’d both wanted it that way but, most importantly, Will had wanted it that way. Not that Molly noticed anything otherwise but things had never been the same for Will since that Christmas. 

He’d once referred to family as an ill-fitting suit; December 26 was the day he’d had to try a lot harder every day to convince himself that his husband suit fit okay.

He did have to admit that his first, self prepared, proper Christmas dinner had been delicious. Wild turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, and handmade stuffing all made, or killed, by Will himself. 

At least, Molly and Wally had liked theirs fine. The Fosters’ plates may have been made separately and with different ingredients. Sawdust, blood, and less than fresh vegetables just to name a few. Nothing obvious enough to draw attention, but just enough for it to taste awful. 

Will smirks to himself and barely manages to stifle a laugh, grateful that his back is to Chiyoh as starts up with the beef. He’ll have to tell Hannibal that story later. Hannibal had been present in his own way as Will had progressed through that dinner, providing commentary and suggestions for the Fosters’ meals of course, but telling him in person would be different. He wondered if he’d say and think the same things even though Will knew he would.

Winston yips almost politely from the floor. “No,” Will chastises. “You know better.” He yips again, makes a disgruntled warbling noise, and Will actually hears Chiyoh laugh. That’s a first. She admits she may have spoiled him. Will sighs and tosses down a bit of beef. “That’s all you get, buddy. Better enjoy it.”

Winston’s reply is to bump affectionately against his good leg ( _good dog,_ he thinks) and wanders off to the living area. Will makes a note to find some stuff in town for Winston to play with. He’ll be fine on his own in the living room for now but eventually he’s going to get bored. And Will’s going to have to start making dog food again.

“Why Winston?”

“Hmm?”

Chiyoh repeats the question. “Of all the dogs in your pack. Why Winston?” She doesn’t elabourate further. Will knows what she’s thinking: any of the others would have been a more strategic choice. Winston was a mutt, not overly identifiable but just enough to stick in someone’s memory. Will doubts there’s any “Have You Seen This Dog” flyers showing Winston. Chiyoh said herself that the dogs were all in decent homes and he definitely appreciates whatever paperwork wizardry has been accomplished to have Winston here and trusts that it is untraceable to here. The other dogs were also smaller. 

Will juggles between the rice and the beef for some time. Long enough that he’s started adding vegetables to the beef before he decides he’s going to answer her. “There was never any other choice.” Much like when he met Hannibal, when he met Winston his fate was sealed for good or ill. He had been a difficult dog to coax to his side, not one of the most violent but the one most seemingly passively resistant to his help. That should have been a hint, too.

Will didn’t just keep dogs because he liked them or because they gave him something to focus on aside from his own instabilities but for the companionship. Connecting with animals was easy. Dogs were far simpler than humans and he never felt overwhelmed when surrounded by his pack. Their needs were simple and their feelings open and non threatening. Will could handle that far better than anything in a person.

His dogs didn't really expect much from him either. Physical needs were easy and their emotional needs varied on the dog and in comparison to meeting the emotional needs of a human this was a practical non issue. He spent time with them, played with them, and they were always happy to see him when he got home. They did keep a polite distance from him otherwise, though. As if they knew something about him that the rest of humanity didn't quite want to speak aloud. All except Winston. 

Winston had been different. He'd been the only dog to stay with him when he'd sleep walked right out of the house. He'd been almost human in how he'd 'check in' with Will as he'd been unraveling and even after, when he'd been deep in trying to lure Hannibal and trying to sort out what side of the battle line in stood on. 

Another hint: Winston liked Hannibal for the most part. He'd taken a bit to warm up to him, not that Hannibal had had many interactions with his dogs but Winston always sort of stuck by him on the times he was at the house. Maybe to keep an eye on him, maybe because he liked him, maybe because he was waiting for Will to get a clue and join them. He’d become a bit wary of Hannibal when Will had been exonerated but he had been frustratingly easy going with Hannibal while Will hadn’t been anywhere near that. 

"He was always my dog," he continues after what feels like an age as he stirs the beef. "He always liked me best. Never really warmed up to Alana, I’m told, never really warmed up to Molly or Wally either.” The other dogs had all ended up preferring them, he doesn’t add.

"He disliked them?"

Will shakes his head. "He was alright with them; he just didn’t bother with them unless they were bringing him food.” He'd become almost catlike in their presence where the other dogs would fall over themselves with attention seeking affection. Winston had remained distant, acting almost as if they weren't in the room unless they were feeding him if even then. Winston only ever came to life whenever Will was in the room and all of that attention was focuses on him. Willy had done his best to distract him but was never successful. Winston was never hostile about his preference for Will but he made it well known. Will was the only one who he would obey at first command, or who he’d let take him for walks or to the vet for example.

"Do you believe he missed his old life?"

”I think he missed me. He knew I wasn’t myself unless I was with him.” He hadn't really meant to actually reply to that but there’s nothing for it. Chiyoh brings over the vegetables to add to the pan. He doesn’t object. 

"You once told me that you knew yourself best when you were with Hannibal."

Will nods, both as acknowledgement as as thanks and speaks directly to his stir fry. "That's still true.” 

Chiyoh is silent beside him as if she isn't there at all. "Did Winston come to you before or after Hannibal did?"

"Before but only just.

He swears he can hear Chiyoh's nod. "And he knows this?"

Will wants to say no but really he doesn't know. Hannibal may know the name, birth dates, and registrations of every dog he’s ever owned for all he knows. "He knows enough to know that Winston would be the one I'd want to take with me if I could only have one. That's as much as I can say for sure."

"He is a good choice," Chiyoh agrees. She's moving back to her seat now and Will lets himself uncoil a bit. "You've trained him well."

" _I_ did," he agrees with a pointed look at Chiyoh, who does not waver under a stare that has made most of his students queasy. “You do have him begging for food now.” 

Chiyoh shrugs and tells him that she trusts he can fix that behaviour well enough without her help. It's true.

He finishes up with the stir fry in silence. He doesn't know what Chiyoh is doing to amuse herself because she doesn't move from her seat again until she asks him where the plates are and Will, again, finds himself accepting her help with getting dishes out. He dishes out two reasonable sized servings and puts the the skillet back on the stove to keep warm in case Chiyoh wants more. He puts together something for Winston too. He wishes he could snap a picture of Winston attacking whatever expensive bowl he’s undoubtedly given him. He doesn’t ask Chiyoh to.

Chiyoh only wants water to drink so he gets another glass for himself at the same time and they both tuck in. “Bon appetit,” Will quips as Chiyoh takes her first bite. She nods, satisfied. She almost manages to hide her surprise.

“See?” He can’t help crowing. “I can cook!”

She takes another bite. Swallows. Then another. “You can,” she agrees.

=====================================================================

Will had noticed the liquor cabinet when he’d first taken a tour of the house. He hadn’t allowed himself to give much thought to it given all the current state of things and it seemed odd for some reason to be drinking alone here. Part of him, he has to admit, was waiting for Hannibal before he broke open the bourbon. But he has company, it’s polite, and Chiyoh actually seems to be up for a drink and a talk. He pours them each a small helping of whiskey, his favourite he notes, and they settle onto one of the couches. Each to their opposite ends and very comfortable with that fact.

Winston wants to come hang out with them and while Will knows that there are certainly going to be discussions about dog hair and furniture in his future they aren’t happening this second. Winston happily hops up at Will’s encouraging pat on the empty space between them and Winston settles himself with his head on Will’s thigh and his tail brushing Chiyoh’s tucked up feet. She pats his rump affectionately. Will scratches Winston behind the ears. He must think he’s in heaven.

“I should go soon,” Chiyoh says after a few moments of dog distraction induced silence. “I have a bed in town for the night and then I’m leaving you both to what you both have left to do.” She takes a sip of her drink, nodding as she acknowledges Will’s questioning glance but does not address it. “I assume you have no intention of leaving?”

Will shakes his head. “No. No, I’m staying. One way or the other.”

“Meaning?”

“If Hannibal comes back or not.”

“If Hannibal decides you should move elsewhere?”

“Me personally or the two of us?” At Chiyoh’s irritated eyebrow raise he sighs. “Okay, if he comes and tells me Interpol is coming for us and we need to run, I’ll run with him. If he wants to move just for the sake of it, that’s another issue.”

Chiyoh looks at him and it’s almost fond. Almost with humour. She shakes her head. “It is quite disconcerting to hear a similar response from your lips as from Hannibal’s in response to a different question.” Will watches her think about clarifying that statement and just as quickly watches her decide not to. As much as he appreciates speaking freely with someone, there is still a veil between him a Chiyoh that Will will not draw back and Chiyoh will not cross. “This is a conversation the two of you need to have. Not one that I need to have again.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a slip of paper and hands it to Will. “That’s the combination to the safe upstairs. You know what you will find in there?”

Will nods as he pockets it. He doesn’t tell her that guessed the combination already but just hasn’t gathered the nerve to actually open it up. It’s the deeds, he knows that much, but he also suspects to find Hannibal’s identity in there. The one that he’ll use once he’s here. If he gets here.

“Is he coming back?” Will finds himself asking and berates himself for the weakness. His guest’s expression almost looks like pity now. She tells him that he knows that he is and Will nods, knowing to believe otherwise is foolish. Nothing, not even death can stop Hannibal Lecter from getting to him. “What’s left for him to do?”

The look that crosses Chiyoh’s fine featured face is one of exasperation now but not at Will. It’s a look that Will has seen on someone’s face when thinking about the idiotic behaviour of their sibling. He remembers that Chiyoh and Hannibal growing up together and wonders what life had been like in that house. “The hard work is done.” She finishes her drink. “People have been paid, people have paid-”

“Did you ki -”

“No!” she snaps, eyes furious with indignation. “The only death is Hannibal’s and Hannibal killed himself.” He knows that Chiyoh’s speaking like this on purpose, lashing out from her side of the veil where she knows it will hurt. He manages, he hopes, to suppress his reaction to that statement. He hopes that if it was obvious that it didn’t look as desperate as it felt. Even knowing the truth it’s still a hard sentence to hear and a part of him wants to scream. He holds that part in. 

“So what’s left?” Will asks again.

“You gave him the courtesy of something once. He said he wants to return the favour before he comes to you.”

Will blinks. “I have no idea what that means.”

“Neither do I.”

Will is pretty sure she does but isn’t telling him. Pretty sure he knows himself but shuts it down. What he allows himself to know is that Hannibal isn’t stupid enough to go back and fulfill his promise to Alana, Jack, and the others. He’ll bide his time, and he won’t kill without Will now. Not anymore.

“Will we see you again?” he finds himself asking after another few moments of silence. Winston has dozed off between them, their glasses are drained, and he can sense Chiyoh deciding that now is a good time to get going. He is going to miss her, he realises. In his own way he’s grown to like her as much as she’s grown to tolerate him. She’s almost like family.

“Perhaps,” is all she says. Will knows better than to press. She’ll come when called for but otherwise will keep her distance. Part prudence, part survival. Hers and theirs. 

He watches her drive off and feels more alone than he has in a long time as her tail lights vanish into the dark.

=====================================================================

He’d known this was going to happen. He’d known since reading the headlines. He’d known since walking through it in his head. He’d known from how he’d wanted to scream that Hannibal was alive every time Chiyoh made reference to the suicide that wasn’t really a suicide. He’d knew what was going to happen and it was seldom he had such clear warning signs.

There was a stocked medicine cabinet so he’d helped himself to some sleeping pills after a long, hot, shower. Usually if he was preemptive and got to sleep quickly he didn’t have to deal with the horrors his brain could paint for him at night. However Will and his night terrors have been an item for years and they have delighted in being predictably unpredictable no matter what Will does or doesn’t do in an effort to offset them. Tonight is no exception. Knowing the hurricane is coming and making preparations doesn’t necessarily stop the damage from occurring.

He considers it merciful that he doesn’t remember the images when he wakes up in what must be mid scream drenched in sweat. Sweat that his panicked mind thinks is blood and it takes more time than it ought to convince himself that it’s not. His heart his pounding so hard it should have launched out of his chest by now he tries to rub his chest, futilely, to calm it. He shuts his eyes and tries to think of the stream, of fishing earlier today (yesterday he supposes now), but his mind continues to race through the feelings of terror, rage, and grief even as he tries to grab onto any shred of grounding technique he knows.

A concerned whimper from below him breaks into the maelstrom. Will has never been happier to see Winston is his life. He shouldn’t be encouraging him up on the bed but he trusts Winston to understand a one time thing more than most people and, damn it, he needs this. He doesn’t even get a chance to pat the bed before Winston is up on the bed and Will is hugging him tight. Tears sting his eyes but he doesn’t let them fall as he buries his face in Winston’s soft fur. He concentrates on that soft feeling, of Winston’s relaxed breathing, and Will manages to get his own under control. “He isn’t dead.” He whispers the declaration but it is as wrought with iron as he can make it right now. “He isn’t dead. I’d know if he was. No one ends him but me and no one ends me but him.”

It should be terrifying how much that last bit relaxes him but, really, it’s been the truth since the day they met. Will has just been, as is typical, very good at ignoring it. Not anymore. That Will Graham is very dead; himself and Hannibal both ensured that.

Winston eventually starts to get restless and Will releases him. “Thanks, buddy.” He gives his dog a good scratch behind his ears, just the way likes it, before he jumps down and waits for Will by the sliding door to come to the conclusion that he’s not going to bed anytime soon. He’s a bit wobbly, both from the nightmare and not bothering with his cane or his brace, and ends up sitting on the balcony floor, leaning against the wall wrapped in the duvet.

The crisp air does him good and the duvet is very warm. Winston huddles under it with him and curls into his side. Will lets his sweaty head tilt back to rest against the wall and shuts his eyes. He hadn’t had anywhere in mind to drift off to in his memory palace but he hadn’t expected the feeling of being in bed again.

The room he finds himself in is hard to identify. The walls could be beige or could be brown but he couldn't tell you for sure. The bed itself is nondescript as is the duvet he’s cocooned in. He knows in reality he’s wearing a tshirt and pyjama pants but in this bed he’d naked underneath the duvet. He is still sweaty, unfortunately, but he feels comfortable. And safe.

There are also arms around him. The hand attached to one of them is carding through his sweat damp hair, soothing him like Will would have tried to soothe one of his dogs. He doesn't have to guess who his fully clothed backrest is. Nor guess where this came from. He knows this has happened. Has happened several times and fairly recently; he just wasn’t in any state to fully realise it at the time. 

“Is this something we do now?” He asks. The question has the unfortunate effect of the hand going through his hair stopping but feeling the rumbling chuckle through his back and all through his body makes up for it.

“At first, no.” Hannibal tells him. His bedmate’s legs bracket him and his duvet and the sweater he is wearing is almost as comfortable as the duvet. “At first I was able to calm you with words or a hand alone. As the fever progressed the closer I held you, the calmer you became.” He sighs, tired. “As calm as you could be, I should say. I was never able to chase away what you were seeing entirely and you could not recognize me.” He holds him tighter, almost too tight but Will doesn’t really notice or mind. “You never were calm or truly asleep for very long and if you were it was because we were like this,” Hannibal finishes matter of factly. His voice softens again when he adds. “There were more times like this than not before we left for France.”

“We didn’t just stay like this during the crossing?” He means it to be teasing but it comes out a little bit disappointed.

The same regret is in Hannibal’s voice too. “Unfortunately that bed would not have fit us both,” a kiss is pressed into his hair. “And you could barely stand my touch by that point. I had no desire to force you when your heart was already so taxed.” 

Will can’t help it. “That’s new,” he deadpans.

Hannibal’s voice is quiet, has been getting quieter and more pained as he’s gone along. Now it’s almost a distant whisper. “I have never seen you so terrified, Will.”

_Not without you being the cause of it_ , Will doesn’t correct. It’s apart of Hannibal’s discomfort but not the whole of it and for Hannibal to even say that much...that is saying something. That is really more than saying something. Even if it’s only his own head saying it with Hannibal’s voice.

Will can feel the creep of fever red memories but pushes them aside. He doesn’t want to know about them and he’s has more than enough nightmare fuel for the time being. He nuzzles his face against Hannibal’s sweater; it’s as soft as Winston’s fur. “I’m sorry I put you through that.” He means it. “I’m sorry about everything.”

“Please don’t be.” Will is surprised to find Hannibal means this as well. “This was all I ever wanted for the both of us. A death and a rebirth is fair payment. I only wish I could have seen you all the way through yours.”

Will resists the urge to tilt his head to look at Hannibal. He doesn’t want to shatter the illusion or wake himself up right now. “You did what you could, the rest I had to do my own. I may still be working on it.” He yawns. “Also, I appreciate whatever craziness you’ve done to kill us.”

“You are most kind.”

Kind is not really the word Will would choose. Had he been able to he would have insisted on coming with him. Separation is a sickness for them and Hannibal is purposely prolonging it. “Why aren’t you coming back to me now?” Will would never have phrased the question this way to the real Hannibal but here he doesn’t care.

“Chiyoh told you,” his other half near chides. “I’m returning a courtesy you once gave me before returning to me. I owe you nothing less.” The embrace tightens impossibly and Will can feel Hannibal crank his head down a little. “You know where I’ve gone,” he whispers, taunting, into Will’s ear.

He does. Will knows very well where he’s gone because there’s no way he couldn't know. “Knowing doesn’t make it make any more sense.” He untangles himself from Hannibal and sits up. The duvet falls from around his shoulders to pool at his waist and Hannibal looks completely unphased. And maddeningly unapologetic. “Going back to the US is a mistake. If they catch you I will never forgive you.”

Hannibal laughs brightly, as if Will has said something charming, and reaches for Will’s cheek. His injured one. Will nuzzles into the touch despite the pain and his annoyance. “They won’t.” He vows. “They won’t be looking for me there. They did not follow you to Lithuania.”

“I was not a convicted felon when I visited Lithuania,” Will huffs. “And Jack is bullheaded when he has a clear path. The words “Soviet Bloc” and “Records Incomplete or Missing” are not a clear path; that’s the part where he would have asked a lackey to take over.” He doesn’t mention that Jack hadn’t even bothered looking into Hannibal’s life before coming to America. He can’t think of any reason why Jack would suddenly think to himself it was time to visit Will’s place of origin now or ever before thinking of Hannibal’s. 

His birth certificate listed his place of birth as New Orleans. He never actually lived there until he was a cop. That being said it wouldn’t take a detective to figure out where he’d spent most of his childhood. He travelled around a lot but there was a fixed address if you cared enough to look for it. 

“He won’t bother with your past,” Hannibal argues knowingly. “If anything he is in Florence hoping for a glimpse of our ghosts. I killed us well, Will. No one is looking for us.”

Will lies back in Hannibal’s arms but doesn’t fully relax. Hannibal wraps the duvet around him again and holds him much like he had on the bluff, just seated. “You mustn't worry yourself,” he whispers to him. His fingers wind their way through Will’s hair again. “My stay will be short. No one will ever know I was there.”

The next thing Will is aware of is that it’s morning and he is nowhere near as stiff or cold as he should be considering where he spent the night. 


	9. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1) This is insanely late and I'm sorry. Life has been more than a bit hectic. Hope this makes up for it!
> 
> 2) I am now playing fast and loose with New Orleans and Louisiana geography. Please accept my apologies.

Hannibal has never had the occasion to visit New Orleans before now. It’s a pity the timing hadn’t been right to experience Mardi Gras. It would have been a fascinating cultural experience and would have also given him plenty of tourist traffic to blend into. Alas, Mardi Gras some time ago and he plans to be long gone before the end of Lent. 

He also does not plan to spending a great deal of time in New Orleans proper. He has enjoyed what he has seen so far, reveled in the experience of being in a city rich with so many different cultures, but he is making a concentrated effort to not become swept up in it. This trip isn’t about the city nor is it about himself.

Will had been born in this city, Hannibal has been past the the site of the hospital listed on Will’s birth certificate, and Will had worked here. The route that Hannibal has taken today has been what he imagines Will’s regular beat would have been when he worked in homicide. Aside from his birth and the handful of years as a policeman, Will had never spent a great deal of time here himself. His origins were not to be found here. He had been playing a part here as much as he had been at any other time in his life prior to crossing paths with Hannibal.

Will had moved around frequently as a child, picking up and heading off to wherever work for his father would be, but it was here they always returned. Until the day Will left and never returned, of course. 

Will’s place of origin is tomorrow’s journey, however. Today was for New Orleans. Right now he has taken up residence in a moderately sized cafe on Bourbon Street, which seems to be watering hole for the local precinct. Will’s old precinct to be precise. He’s sitting in a corner, not completely isolated but not in with the main crowd. The local news has no mention of either him or Will and there’s nothing in the national or international news outlets either. That is aside from TattleCrime, naturally. There will always be something in TattleCrime and it will never be believed. At least there will always be interesting reading.

He’s confident he will pass through this city unnoticed but precautions and camouflage are always useful. He’s wearing second hand jeans and a second hand red flannel shirt that looks like something Will would have discarded from his own wardrobe. He has also allowed himself to grow a beard, which is less uncomfortable than he’d expected, while his greying hair is caught in an awkward state where it’s not as long as he would prefer but blessedly longer than it has been in recent years. As much as he would like to do something, anything at all, with it he does not. He just lets the wind do what it will with it. It is not without its appeal, he decides. The less refined he looks the better anyway in any case; especially as he heads further north to the boatyards of Will’s youth. And the house he’d grown up in, that he had never sold or done anything with after his father’s death. 

Hannibal now owns that weather beaten house. Or should he say a version of him took ownership as of two o’clock this afternoon. Molly Foster had been in a hurry to sell and the realtor had been eager to get it off the market, especially with the annulment of her marriage to Will being in process. It wasn’t that Molly wanted the money, Hannibal knew, it was that she wanted everything of Will’s taken care before he was fully extracted from her life. Will had no family to take care of anything after all. He had also thought about acquiring the Wolf Trap farmhouse, whose owners have chosen to attempt to make a profit off the publicity, but is instead watching the property with cautious interest as the curious wander through a house that had been left abandoned three years previously. 

The owners had bought the house for the same reason that they now wanted to sell it and have never actually set a toe across the threshold. Will had stayed there until Hannibal’s verdict had been read and then had vanished completely until resurfacing in Maine, married, over a year and a half later. 

Perhaps it is a question to ask Will when he sees him again. Truly sees him again. It has been unspeakably long. When he had been in prison he had had no problems finding Will in his memory palace. Since leaving him sleeping in the hospital Hannibal has had only the barest glimpse of him. He had hoped being in New Orleans would help but there’s been no sign of him. He used to find Will everywhere, sometimes even in places he had never seen him and places that Will could not possibly have ever been in reality. Now he can only see a silhouette of him through the closed door of his old lecture hall. The door is locked to all of Hannibal’s attempts to get in and if he tries to squint through the small window his view gets darker and not sharper.

Will’s lecture hall had not even had a door in reality. 

A burst of applause comes from the crowd, including a cluster of New Orleans’ finest, as a young blonde woman takes a seat at the piano at the front of the bar. A regular, Hannibal assumes, as the men all nudge and nod between them complimenting the girl’s talent or beauty or both. There’s one officer, a young man in his middle twenties, sitting further back from the group sipping a whiskey who seems to be hoping to vanish into the wall or the floorboards. He looks at his phone, checking the time, and when he puts it back he looks even more miserable.

Hannibal smiles. The boy looks nothing at all like him but he recognizes him all the same. _Hello, Will_

The piano starts its slow and lilting melody and the singer begins near whispering into the microphone. The bar falls instantly silent and all attention is rapt on her as she sings about her desperate need to occupy her intended’s mind. Hannibal makes himself finish his drink and has to try slightly harder to make himself remain throughout the performance. Not because it’s terrible, far from it, but because the song choice is too appropriate.

_Appropriate to the old us. Not now. Never again._

Hannibal sighs quietly. He may not have the pleasure of seeing Will but he does get blessed with his voice every now and again. Always as if standing directly behind him or beside him, it is the latter at this moment. No, he doesn’t need to see Will or ask him to know that fact. Never again.

He pulls a manila folder out of his canvas backpack, another piece of camouflage should someone be looking for him, and flips through the scanned maps and newspaper clippings he’d received from the local library. He had requested several Hurricane Katrina themed articles and photographs to mask any possible correlation drawn between himself and the only photograph he actually wanted.

It is a picture of a family standing before the ruins of their home but his attention was on a figure in the background. It was a man on a roof, in mud splattered and clothes more threadbare than the ones Hannibal is wearing now, either removing or adding shingles to a house that looked ready to collapse beneath him at any given moment.

It was a grainy photo and the view was to the side but Will had looked askance at just the right moment for the photographer to capture his face. He’d come back home to help his father rebuild, Hannibal supposed the man on the ground looking up at Will with his arms folded and a familiar disproving expression was Will’s father. He appeared much older than he likely was at the time. Hannibal also had Noah Graham’s obituary among his papers; he’d died three years before he had met Will. Liver failure, lung cancer, and a lifetime of hard living. He had been seventy-five. There had been a memorial service and, according to Hannibal’s research, he had had more people in attendance than Will was certain to have had at his own.

He’d thought about making an appearance at that. Unobserved of course. It had been a fleeting, impossible thought but at least it would have meant someone would have been there. Perhaps Molly if not her child as well. Certainly not Jack. Likely no one. A lonely plaque in a non descript, and anonymous, cemetery were far below what Will deserved. 

The image of Will, fevered and a hairsbreadth away from his heart stopping once again, flashes through his mind’s eye unbidden. Hannibal stops it, tries to replace it with the more peaceful image of Will as he’d left him. That image changes immediately to Will at the bottom of the stairs that day, after Hannibal had stepped out for supplies. He’d thought he’d killed himself, he’d thought-

_I’m alive. I’m alive and waiting for you. What are_ you _waiting for?_ Will’s voice chases the memories away. Hannibal can see again.

He has to agree and he almost changes his mind but he needs to be here for now. He needs to see this through. Maybe not for the same reason Will had done for him but he wants to know if not understand Will’s formative years if only because it is the only part of Will’s life of which he knows nothing.

_Aside from those three years. Don’t forget those._

Hannibal grits his teeth, the singer croons that love is not safe. He collects his papers, sets his payment neatly on the table, and leaves the bar. No one marks his departure

=====================================================================

The next day, Hannibal rents a car and punches in the address of Noah Graham’s house into the GPS. Not a built in one, a cheap one he’d bought before checking out of the hotel that plugs into the cigarette lighter and only stays connected if arranged just so. Hannibal ends up holding the cord as he drives, wrapping it around his pinky finger, to keep the connection stable. Despite this the satellites lose him, find him again, and then lose him permanently as all signs of civilization appear to vanish. There are more trees than houses now, small clusters of homes but nothing built to last more than a season or two. Hannibal can’t help but see shades of Wolf Trap.

The fishing boats are out on the lake now, the camps mostly rebuilt as are the boat yards, but it looks sparse all the same. It probably hadn’t been much more populated than this before Hurricane Katrina but it seems a shadow of its former self. Hannibal wishes he could have seen it before Katrina had hit. To be fair,though, it’s also not quite tourist season.

The GPS starts to life briefly and informs him that the destination is on the right. The coordinates take him to a rust encrusted, much abused mailbox that appears to be standing by force of will alone despite the newer looking supports and cement holding it into the ground. It was probably one of the last repairs Will had ever made to this house.

The house is down aways past the mailbox at the end of an overgrown path. It’s a grey, two level, wooden affair that looks like a strong wind would blow it over. As he walks closer he notices there’s no screen door anymore, there are sizable dents and paint peeling that likely predate Noah Graham’s death. The porch and the porch steps are littered with holes and there is an extremely precarious rocking chair carefully creaking in the breeze. Hannibal can almost picture Noah Graham sitting there with a shotgun across his lap.

They would have been able to see who was coming up the way before anyone could see that they were home. They would have plenty of time to get the house, or themselves, presentable if visited by a school counselor or a child services official. Will never spoke about any difficulties with either but Hannibal doesn’t need to conjure up a specific reason why either of those two officials would be curious or concerned about Will’s development or Noah’s ability to parent.

Will would have done well in school but quietly. He was a child who moved around a lot and was also frequently absent from school or transferring in and out of different ones. He lived in a single parent household in a low income environment. That that would not be an unusual situation in most of the places Will would have gone to school but he would have aimed to keep his head down as much as he could. There were too many reasons to pay attention to him based on his empathy disorder let alone any other reasons.

There were no terms or theories about what Will was now let alone then. There were no resources or help that Will could have received even had he or his father wanted or asked for it. Noah, judging by Will’s brief mentions of him, hadn’t been the type of man set to deal with a child like Will. A gruff man, Hannibal imagines, unused to such a sensitive and feeling child let alone children at all. Hannibal also could say with fair certainty, based on the photographs of Noah in the Katrina article and the obituary, that Will must look very much like his mother. To stare at a reminder of the woman who left you each and every day, who probably felt things as deeply as she did, would have been a heavy burden to bear for a man like Noah.

Will had never spoken poorly of his father. He never spoke warmly of him either. _He did what he could with what he had._

Will may not have connected with the concept of family but Hannibal does not think Noah the type of man, no matter what he thought of Will, to let someone open up his boy’s skull and play around in it. Will had to inherited that gruffness from somewhere. Noah would had no trouble letting any school or medical officials know precisely what he thought about them and their intentions, no matter how many degrees or certifications they possessed. Hannibal almost feels the need to apologise to a ghost. 

The steps to the porch to not look ready to support the weight of a child let alone a grown man, so he steps up, his side loudly registering its protest he stretches up to the porch. The force of his weight that makes the rusted door swing open. Immediately Hannibal’s nose objects but he tries his best to ignore the smells of rot, mold, and disrepair. Will never dealt with this place after his father’s death. Was he hoping it was simply collapse into a heap one day? He steps through the narrow foyer, which gives way to a small kitchen with a table and two chairs are shoved in a corner. No space or expectation for guests.

The kitchen amenities are little more than an oven, a plug in stove top, and a refrigerator. Hannibal knows the cabinets will be empty but the space for storing pots and pans is minimal. So is counter space. A closer inspection of the table tells him that all prep was done there and without any sort of cutting board. There is a large collection of cuts, dents, and other assorted marks all over the table top. There’s even spots where someone had just taken to carving out a hole in the table out of boredom or frustration.

The power is disconnected but the plug in stove top is plugged in anyway and is bent in just the right way to indicate that it’s been done so to keep the connection working. Hannibal finds himself remembering the state of Will’s kettle in Wolf Trap. Its cord had been bent in a similar manner and the kettle itself had looked about as old as the one in front of him now. Will would never be a man who felt comfortable about luxury or extravagance but Hannibal was going to make him realise the necessity of upgrades in cases like these. 

Hannibal bypasses the staircase leading upstairs in favour of what would be a living room. There was nothing there now aside from a moth eaten, mouldy area rug. The indents suggest that all that was here was likely a small television set and one arm chair. The smell becomes too much to extrapolate further and he escapes upstairs. 

He enters the master bedroom only because of the sight of a few files of papers. They were roughly tied with twine were weighted with what appeared a ledger. Opening the book proved it was just that - a list of names, their various mechanical issues, and payment billed and received are neatly recorded in less than neat print. 

It takes him a moment to eventually notice the second set of printing, blocky and tidy in its untidiness, and another page or so to recognize it as a very young Will’s. The entries are dated so Hannibal has the odd feeling of realizing exactly how old Will was when he started working with his father. His small fingers must have been quite valuable in some cases. The files themselves are filled with mostly trivial pieces of paperwork pertaining to the house itself, or fishing expenses and income (again with both Noah’s writing and Will’s). In between a few final bills and insurance claims there are some photographs. Mostly photographs of different motors or boat damages but with two exceptions, which he pockets thinks about pocketing before better sense tells him it’s too much of a risk.

One is what Hannibal assumes is Will’s high school graduation photo. He looks profoundly uncomfortable, doubtlessly itchy underneath the polyester robe and ill fitting shirt and tie. He is impossibly young even accounting for the lack of facial hair and carefully tamed curls. He remembers that Will once mentioned he’d finished high school a year early and worked all through that extra year to get money for university. Unusual for someone with as patchy an educational history but Will was both hardworking and exceptionally intelligent. He tries to picture that version of Will. Puts him in the back of a classroom, quietly working, passing by unnoticed, surrounded by the feelings and desires of hormonal teenagers and bored, overworked teachers. It was no wonder he’d worked hard to finish early.

The second photo appears to have been taken by Noah Graham himself. It’s of an older Will, but still a younger Will than Hannibal ever knew, loading up a newer looking version of his station wagon. Moving to university Hannibal assumes, for graduate school most likely. Anyone else would look eager with a touch of nerves or apprehension. Will simply looks determined, it’s a look that Hannibal is more than familiar on its own but the look of relief in his eyes is not something Hannibal has ever seen before. It must have been significant to Noah as well to take a picture of it. That may well have been the last time Noah had seen him before Hurricane Katrina had hit. Then never again until his dying day, if even then. Will probably was contacted after the fact. 

Hannibal slips the photographs back in with the others and then heads to the small bedroom at the end of the hall. Will’s childhood bedroom is as spartan as expected. The bookcase is empty, now but it likely once held a handful of second hand favourites. The single bed is warped and rusted and looks like it might disintegrate at any moment. Somehow it does not when Hannibal sits on it but it does scream and creak in an alarming manner. The only solid thing is the desk. It’s simple, sturdy, and looks relatively new in comparison to the rest of the house. It was likely something Will and his father built themselves. It looks like it would survive the end of times. 

He cautiously imagines a young Will into being, young enough that his feet don’t touch the ground and Hannibal can hear the frantic tinkering and scraping of metal on metal as he works on something. Hannibal stands up, the image vanishes before he can see Will’s face, and notes the grease stains and oil slicks on the surface. There are also a few faded pencil scrawlings but nothing that Hannibal can make out.

He moves to the window next. The Grahams had a small backyard, Hannibal wonders if Will ever adopted a stray or two, and you could cut down and through right to the lake and on right to the boatyards if you were so inclined. Hannibal turns his attention to the lake now; it’s shining in the early spring sun and he watches with fondness at the boats crossing the view before him. He doesn’t realise he’s humming something until Will brings it to his attention.

_Didn’t think you were the sea shanty type, Dr. Lecter._

Hannibal raises an eyebrow. Will laughs in his head and hums what Hannibal had been humming back at him before singing a little bit back at him properly. Hannibal has never heard Will sing anything and wonders if this is what he would sound like in actual fact. As Will sings about sailing homeward to a place called Mingulay it changes, pitches higher and younger. He pictures Will and his father on one of those boats, Noah steering and Will hauling nets full of fish on board. Both are singing together without even noticing. The pitch lowers back to an adult male’s hum and it sounds a further away. Upon blinking, Hannibal finds himself sitting under the canopy, just in front of the helm, of a boat that seems strangely familiar somehow. It takes him longer than it should but he gets there.

This is Will’s boat. The one he’d sailed to Europe in. There had been pictures in court. Both lawyers had been confused as to why he hadn’t booked a plane ticket like anyone else would have. Hannibal had not been.

Will had lied a lot during Hannibal’s trial. He may not have known that he was, may have convinced himself that he wasn’t, but he was lying all the same. That was fine, Hannibal had allowed. If he needed to fully and completely delude himself before coming to understand then that was what was necessary. He’d decided he was going to suffer through this until Will came to him and the first step was listening to whatever story Will had decided to spin and blind himself with. It had been a good effort. It might have even worked were Will a lesser man.

The amount of lying was offset by the occasional dram of truth that Will would utter when on the stand. His response to the question had simply been that the both of them had needed time to think before they saw each other again. Will had then done a wonderful job at failing to reply as to why eight months hadn’t been time enough and managing to divert them to another point. Seeing one another was a different experience than seeing anyone else and Will even then was loathe to let anyone else see that. Hannibal had responded in kind during his time on the stand.

Hannibal had left Will alive in his kitchen. He’d known he’d be incapable of following him for a time but had also known that he would eventually, as soon as he had healed enough both physically and enough to truly _see_ Hannibal again.

And with that revelation there Will is. A Will that isn’t afire with sickness, corpse like on the floor, or dead underneath his hands. This is a Will from three years ago, from before the bonesaw and before the forgiveness. Hannibal almost weeps at the joy and the relief at seeing him again. He watches Will come up from below deck. He’s bundled up in a sweater and his familiar touque and is carrying a mug of something Hannibal is sure is highly caffeinated in his gloved hands. It’s the dead of night in this reality and it looks like a storm is coming. Will does not appear concerned as he sips his drink, regretfully sets it down, and takes hold of the helm. He appears to be appraising the sails and, while Hannibal has no idea what precisely he’s looking at, Will is satisfied with what he sees. 

It takes a few moments for Hannibal to actually hear that Will is making a noise over the sudden gusts of wind. The cold and the force make it difficult to hear, make Hannibal want to take cover below deck, but Will plants his feet and grips the wheel tighter in resolution. Hannibal listens closely and he hears it.

He is singing that song. Very softly, more breath than voice, but singing it nonetheless. 

_Swing her head round, every inch is sailing homeward to Mingulay._

Hannibal will accept that maybe, maybe, Will has hummed this song within his earshot before and he wasn’t in a position to hear it or notice it properly. It sounds more familiar the longer he listens to it but he cannot conjure an explanation for knowing the words. Or for conjuring Will singing in the first place. He’s certain he’d remember hearing that. 

This apparition of Will suddenly locks eyes with him. He sees him. He _sees_ him. He sees _him_. Hannibal feels every drop of blood in his body freeze. Will hasn’t looked at him and known him since the bluff. Will stops singing and smiles the smile that Hannibal had last seen outshining the Primavera. He can’t help but return it. 

He thinks he has managed to find his breath to say something to him but the scene changes back to reality before he can start to make a sound. It is very dark out now. He’s lost time, a significant amount of it if his five dollar watch is to be trusted. 

_Not so fun, is it?_

Hannibal chuckles softly. “Not entirely,” he agrees, thinking of the return of Will to his mind palace. Of that bright, too rare smile. “But it was not without its rewards.” 

=====================================================================

When Will had met him the gallery he’d said he’d found after images of him in Lithuania. That he’d had to be clear about what he was seeing as he’d wandered through Hannibal’s past. He’d never taken the opportunity to ask Will about how useful the exercise had been. He supposes he doesn’t need to now. It was a courtesy, as he’d told Chiyoh when Chiyoh had told him he was both stupid and insane for wanting to return to the United States so soon. 

Hannibal had once told Bedelia Du Maurier that nothing had happened to him to make him what he was. That he had happened. The same, he decides, can be said for Will.

From what Hannibal understands of the culture of the place in which he finds himself, of his observation of the people living and working here, he can imagine the difficulties Will would have here. A fair few of the people he meets, he’s asking after the Graham house as a point of interest for a local history effort and he’s told stories about Noah Graham and his boy without him even mentioning the names.

“Always knew too much,” says an nonagenarian named Maudie Lewis, who offers Hannibal some passable crab cake and a sweet tea, which Hannibal is fairly sure rotted his teeth after the first sip. “Don’t think he cared to know it but he did. Felt it, too. A bit oversensitive, that one.” The old woman smiles, glaucoma covered eyes shining in the sunlight. It’s curious to find that they way people speak of Will has not changed from childhood to present. He’s heard plenty about Will from different people in different circumstances at this point everyone sounds wary without knowing that they sound wary. Hannibal had never heard anyone speak of himself that way until his trial.

“Such a sweet boy, though,” she finishes with warmth and almost with an air of apology for her earlier comments. “Had a way with the strays; his daddy wouldn’t let him keep none what with them in and out of the house for months at a time. They went to where the work was, you see. Noah was always good with his hands. Will too for that matter.”

Hannibal thinks of Will’s bloodied face and the ferocity with which he’d gutted the dragon, thinks of his promise to kill him with his hands. He smiles slightly with both his eyes and his voice. He lets Miss Lewis think he’s smiling more at that comment than he actually is. “What happened to him?” He asks in a heavy, raspy French accent.

She waves her hand off to the distance. Far from where they were standing. “Away,” she replies. “He went off and away. Haven’t seen him since Noah died and don’t expect to again.” She laughs at her own joke and Hannibal thanks her for the meal and continues on his way.

Again, Hannibal doesn’t have a lot to go on but he can make some basic inferences from what he’s learned. He knows that Will had been a sensitive boy in an environment where he couldn’t afford to be. He felt things too strongly and too much and his father had been unable to deal with this sensitive, brilliant boy he’d been left to single parent. No one knows what became of Will’s mother, Miss Lewis couldn’t even seem to remember the woman’s name. There wasn’t even a birth announcement for Will and there had been no mother’s name on his birth certificate.

Will had been shaped in some way by his beginnings, by his solitude and adaptability as Hannibal was shaped in his own, as anyone would be. But, again like Hannibal, Will could not explained by them. Both of them had run from their beginnings, leaving behind all they could and carrying only what they could bear. Which, in Will’s case, had been a very light load. No one would know where Will had come from unless he told them. Hannibal imagines the dedication it would have taken Will to lose his Southern drawl. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard a slip. 

_I’ve had it with you crazy sons of bitches._

Almost a slip, almost _sumbitches_. That was what undoubtedly ran through Will’s head when he said it but he carefully and precisely enunciated otherwise. It was a phrase Will usually avoided for precisely this reason. He would have berated himself for it later, needlessly so in Hannibal’s opinion. Only he’d noticed. The Will in his head thanks him for saying so but him noticing was still a slip.

Hannibal’s backpack is packed, he’s ready to drive the car back to the rental company and leave for a home he hopes to find but he feels the need to pay a visit to Noah Graham first. He’s buried in New Orleans and the headstone is very neat and to the point. There’s no “rest in peace” no “beloved father.” Will loved his father like Cordelia had loved Lear: exactly according to their bond.

_There’s something so foreign about family. Never connected to the concept._

He thinks about the alternatives that Will could have had in a father and how that may have made things different. Or not so different. Hannibal, for the first time in decades, thinks of his own father and what may have been different had his father lived. Of his uncle as well. He doesn’t think of his sister aside from the fact that at least he’d had her for the brief period he had. Will had had no one for so very long.

Not anymore and never again. 

He’s halfway out of the cemetery when Molly Foster walks purposefully past him. Hannibal alters his course to appear as if he has left and circles back to follow her. She is alone, strides as if she is readying herself to meet the devil, and has all the bearing of someone who would rather be anywhere else. In her hands is a small tin. Hannibal wonders what the FBI gave her when he left nothing of Will to be found. 

There’s a part of him that wants to snap Molly’s neck here and now but he stays his hand for many reasons. The primary ones being practicality and the certainty that Will would never forgive him for it. He notes her wedding ring is absent and the chances of her being killed here and now further diminish.

“I really don’t know what I’m doing here,” she admits to the grave of a man she never met. “I don’t even know if you want this,” she says to the tin in her hands. “I suppose there isn’t enough of you left to care where you are but...dammit.” She swipes at her eyes furiously and steels herself. “I don’t know if I ever knew you and I don’t think anyone ever did except _him_ and I...I don’t know how to understand that.”

_You can’t._ Hannibal agrees. Molly had been blind by Will’s design and her own desire. He knows that much. Will didn’t tell her anything and Molly did not press. That had been enough for them, enough for a time, and that time would have eventually come to an end. Regardless of what had gone on to happen. She’s realised that now and that’s why she’s come here. She’s already letting Will go legally, she’s likely already given away his possessions, the only thing left of Will in her life is what’s in her hands. This is different from clothes and paperwork. This is the only place that she can think of to lay what’s left of Will to rest and not feel like she’s throwing him away but not keeping him close to her either. A Google search would tell her the location of Noah Graham’s grave and so here she is. Putting his ends at his beginnings in the only way she understands it. 

“Wherever you are now,” she says after a moment. “I hope you’re at peace.” Her voice never wavers and she means it. In her understanding Will met his end at the hands of a man he was sworn to put in prison. A man who later killed himself because of that decision. Molly is choosing to see it as Will’s final victory. He has to give her some credit for that; even Freddie Lounds hasn’t made that connection yet.

She kneels in the dirt and digs up a little bit of earth. She opens the container and gently pours what are certainly not the last earthly remains of Will Graham into the hole and quickly covers them up with dirt, as if he will escape and cling to her if she doesn’t move fast enough. “You used to say you sometimes wish you’d stayed back home and fixed boats.” Hannibal notes she doesn’t say what home was. She also doesn’t argue that point. “You’re home now.” 

Molly Foster rises slowly, then turns and leaves the cemetery just as purposefully as she entered it. She does not notice Hannibal watching her and does not look back. Hannibal reminds himself that getting a marriage annulled is not simple and whatever she’s arguing is enough to allow the court to grant this to her but not enough to merit headline news. Or Freddie Lounds’ interest. 

_See?_

Hannibal nods. In another life, he decides, he would have liked Molly Foster. In this life, he can only respect her. It is enough.

_Homeward bound?_

_To Mingulay?_

_You don’t even know where that is._

_I do not._

_Scotland. I think. Whatever. You coming or aren’t you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) The song that Hannibal hears in the Bourbon Street cafe is [Heart's a Mess](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpN1j8R5lZ8). That being said, I had [this cover by Missy Higgins](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hzoDg0PYQ0Q) in mind as I was writing.
> 
> 2) The sea shanty mentioned is "The Mingulay Boat Song". There are a million versions of it on YouTube, I ended up going back and forth between [The Corries'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WgkGrm5516k) version and [Richard Thompson's](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U_5H0xMCPsM). But, yeah, choose your own adventure there. It's a gorgeous no matter what.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should say updates as they come from this point on. Work is bananas at the moment! Don't worry though, I am going to see this through! 
> 
> Thank you so much for you patience and, as always, your feedback gives me life.

Will almost tosses the tennis ball at the closed kitchen window instead of out the open kitchen back door when the idea to go to Paris hits him. It isn’t the first time. Has it been three days since Chiyoh left or four? The fact that he can’t remember tells him that his attempts of either keeping distracted or trying his very best to think of nothing have been working. Working up until now at least.

It’s a beautiful day, again, and Will has been eating his breakfast in quick snatches while Winston fetches the ball from the back property. Will’s throw will never be what it was but it’s enough to send Winston far enough for him to eat his toast and enjoy his coffee without feeling rushed. During that observation, of watching Winston run joyously through the sun and the grass, Will had found himself wondering if the weather in Paris would be just as nice today. No prompt for that thought and no reason for it.

Winston bumps his good leg, reminding Will that he has a job to do. “Sorry.” He hurls the ball out as far as he can and Winston doesn’t even try to avoid his bad leg as he darts out. Will doesn’t wince. It’s getting better and Winston knows it. Will doesn’t even bother having the cane on hand in the house anymore. It sits by the front door for him to take into town but Will’s considering leaving it in the car on his next trip in. 

_You’ll want to be using it in Paris._

Will growls at that thought. Winston comes back with the ball and Will tosses it one more time before heading over to sit at the kitchen island, a fact Winston notes before he rushes off a final time. Will sips what’s left of his coffee and wakes up the tablet. He doesn’t even bother berating himself as he checks the weather for Paris (just as nice there as it is here) and investigates directions and parking. He has a half sorted itinerary in his head before he even knows it. For the first time he finds himself seriously considering it and not aggressively pushing it out of his mind.

The first objection had been the obvious: that it was a major city that certainly made the top ten list of places he or Hannibal could be hiding. The second had been a hesitancy to head off to another city, even for a day, when he didn’t know when Hannibal would be coming back.

A retort to the first objection was in two parts. One being that Will was the far less recognizable one out of the two of them and the other being the fact that they had both been declared dead, Will for the longest so far. The international papers had never really carried the story about their tumble into the Atlantic and maybe French officials would have been keeping their eye out when Hannibal had been “at large” but they certainly weren’t now. They likely weren’t looking for Will, anyway.

The possibility of not being here when Hannibal got back was a bit more of a stronger issue but, really, what of it? So what if Hannibal returned to an empty house? Will had every intention of coming back and Hannibal would know that the instant he opened the door. They could not survive separation and Will has made his choice but he will not be joined at the hip to the man. Neither of them would be able to stand that. 

Will was getting a little bit stir crazy, too. He enjoyed the isolation, enjoyed the control he had over what social interaction was available to him, but he felt the need to stretch his legs a little. Take in a bit of a larger city and see as well as believe that he could vanish into it as easily as he could do before. He was good at making himself invisible or unremarkable. He’d managed quite well at it until Jack Crawford and Hannibal Lecter had drawn him out of self imposed exile. People may mark something about him but it was always unconscious and they preferred to look away onto something else rather than dwell on the vague sense of unease that they couldn’t identify the source of. 

Hannibal, on the other hand, blended in so perfectly by being so obvious. By stepping into the light and becoming the centre of an environment instead of blending into the shadows or the crowd as Will does. It will be interesting to see how that dynamic works between them in the future. It’s the first time he’s given any thought of doing any sort of hunting with Hannibal. He doesn’t feel ready for it but he accepts its eventual inevitability and manages to take it in stride. He only needs a few moments to centre himself before leaving that alone for the time being. 

Instead he thinks about Hannibal in Louisiana right now, of Hannibal sifting through his past in order to know all of him before coming back, not that there was nothing that Will wouldn’t willingly tell him if he’d ask. He thinks about how stupid it is to be back in the US so soon. He has, thankfully, not had a nightmare as bad as the first one since Chiyoh left but he has lost a sizable amount of sleep worrying about the worst case scenario. If Jack got him he wouldn’t let the press know. He couldn’t what with the death having been declared. Will would never know what had happened. 

There’d be some way he’d be told, he allows. Chiyoh, a message, a god damned passenger pigeon. He’d know. And Will would just break him out again. Or maybe wait for Hannibal to break himself out. Will knows Hannibal had to have at least one opportunity during those three years and had chosen to do nothing. He wanted Will to know where he was, after all.

Will’s heart warms at that thought. He hadn’t been able to allow it before but it’s so easy now.

He sips his coffee, breathes in, holds it for a few moments, and then lets it go. Like he has every morning when he wanders down this mental path before beating the thoughts out of his mind. He’s read almost every book in the house, run Winston, spent an inordinate amount of time either watching television or lying on the floor listening to radio static like he used to during office hours. He could do any of that today. He could go back into town and do another grocery run. He had picked up his fly tying gear from the sporting goods store so he could make some lures and go fishing today. It is a nice day for it.

Or he could go to Paris.

Will gets up and whistles for Winston to come back in. He shuts the door behind him and decides to worry about sweeping up the grass and twigs later. Winson sets up camp on the dog bed Will set up in the space between the couch and the loveseat. He starts gnawing happily away on a chew toy and proceeds to pay Will no mind whatsoever.

It’s a two hour drive to Paris. It’s barely ten in the morning now. Winston would be fine on his own for a day. He could always ask Marisol and Serge to check in on him if he was concerned. Marisol, Serge’s partner in both business and life, had barely spoken two words in Will’s presence until yesterday, when he’d brought Winston into town. Marisol had squealed with delight at seeing him and Winston had preened at the extra attention. He’d also more than enjoyed the fact that Marisol could run with him while all Will could do at the moment was limp somewhat quickly.

They had had a dog in Algeria, Serge had said later well out of Marisol’s earshot. A scrappy terrier of some questionable parentage that they’d found half dead in an alley and nursed back to health. They’d had to leave him behind and Marisol had been devastated. Another dog had been out of the question but maybe, just maybe, meeting and playing with Winston outside of town had warmed her up to the idea. “Or she is going to steal yours.” 

Marisol had heard that bit and then proceeded to berate Serge in furious Spanish before turning back to Will. “I would never!” she’d assured him. “I would never steal your dog.” They were the first words of English Will had ever heard her speak.

“Pas pour longtemps!”  Serge had muttered with a smile. Will was then greeted to the sight of a barely five foot tall woman chasing after a man who was probably as tall as two of her. In another life, Will may have awkwardly left but he had found himself amused by the sight of Marisol claiming her victory, leaping on Serge’s back and crowing while Serge only pretended to be sorry. It was nice to see a simple sort of love on display. To watch on the outside but not be a part of.

They had earned it, Will knew. He hadn’t asked a lot of Serge or Marisol’s past history. He knew Marisol was originally from Spain and had moved to Algeria for work. Serge was born and raised in Algiers and had never left the country before moving to France. Aside from the two of them meeting and falling in love, Will knew there wasn’t any happy story back there and not one they were willing to share. It was the reason why they didn’t press Will for details about how he and ‘his friend’ had found themselves settling here. They also weren’t pressing him on his relationship to Hannibal either, leaving that distinction firmly in his court.

Or rather, he corrects, his relationship to _Anton_.

Will had caved and opened up the safe the day after Chiyoh had left. Inside he’d found all the paperwork about the house and ownerships he’d expected to along with a fair few alternate identities for Will himself. Options for switching should he want to leave, Will assumed. Or if they had to run.

What was also there was one identity for Hannibal. Anton Lehner, a professor of literature and art history, EU passport by way of Denmark of all places. Will snorted. He wouldn’t be surprised to find out if ‘Anton’ had interviews lined up at the universities in Paris and Orleans already. 

That was as far as Will had gone. Just picked up enough detail to carry a conversational mention of him and then set it back, in a different place to show that he had touched it and put it right back, and closed the safe up again. He hadn’t been asked much after Hannibal. Everyone he met seemed perfectly used to not bothering in other people’s business unless invited to and no one, at least that Will could gather, was born here. They’d all come here from other places and chosen a small town that was technically part of another small town but was so small that neither took much notice of each other. No one wanted attention and no one sought after it.

It would be good, he had to admit, to get out into a busier city for a day. For all the reasons he’s already thought of and just for a change of scenery. He may have intentionally destroyed one life and universe in favour of another but some aspects had to work the same. 

He finishes his coffee, cleans out his mug, and heads upstairs. He’d better get going if he plans to make a day of it. 

Better sense tells Will he really should do his best to change his appearance before going to a major city. Dead or not dead it wouldn’t be the best plan to take no precautions at all. Knowing his luck he’d be the one that would get caught and shipped back to Jack and if Hannibal ever saw fit to break him out he’d never hear the end of it. 

He thinks about just wearing a hat and shades and hoping for the best, he’s pretty confident that no one is looking for him, but it doesn’t do much to help you blend in. Will sighs heavily when he makes the final decision for his beard to go. He hasn’t been clean shaven since his twenties and he’s reminded sharply why as the hair falls away and he’s left looking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He steps out to grab his glasses from the bedroom and sees if that makes an improvement. It doesn’t. He takes them off again. 

“I look like I’m twelve,” he grumbles. His ears sticking out only makes that image stick harder, he almost swears he can feel himself shrink. What stops that is the sight of his scar, more obvious now without the mask of his facial hair. It shines bright pink like a beacon across his face; Will tells himself that it could be far worse, has been far worse, and if he keeps treating it well it may turn fully white. The ends are slowly starting to fade already. 

He considers his hair next. He could ruffle it up, dye it even, but that would mean a stop into town and he doesn’t want to draw any attention to him leaving. He takes a deep breath, nods his resolve into stone, and rummages around the bathroom for a pair of scissors. It’s been years since he’s had to cut his own hair and he’s out of practice but he manages a simple enough trim. Short enough that he still has hair but no curls. He refuses to go any shorter.

“Your hair grows fast,” he tells himself, sternly. “You’ll live.” He walks away from the bathroom, rubbing his face and ruffling non existent curls as he walks back into the bedroom and pulls open the wardrobe.

Next order of business is what he’s going to wear. He picks out a pair of black slacks and a burgundy shirt. Both obviously tailored items fit perfectly. Will stares at the suit that was also made for him for a moment before disregarding it and grabbing a lightweight black blazer instead. He takes a look at himself in the dresser mirror as he shrugs it on and has to laugh. All he needs is a tie and he’d look a kid heading off to his first job interview. He almost puts the jacket back but doesn’t. He lets this look settle onto him like a new skin. It’s only for the day after all, he can hate it all he wants but he can’t let it show. Eventually, as he stands in front of the mirror, he settles into it. He stands straighter. He owns the clothes.

“There we are,” he says to the mirror, then thinks about it again. He thinks about where Hannibal is right now, and the people he’s speaking with. This time when he says “there we are”, he lets just a peek of the south out. Just enough to colour his speech and mark him as an obvious foreign tourist; and just enough to disguise his voice should anyone happen to overhear him. He says it again just to be sure. He can’t remember the last time he allowed himself to sound like this. 

He nods, as satisfied as he’s going to be, and rubs his bare face. It’s bizarre and he doesn’t like it but he’s sure to have stubble back by tomorrow morning. Growing stubble was easy; his hair grew at a glacial pace after that. The hair on his head, on the other head, would probably be back to where it had been in a two or three weeks.

Winston is a little confused when Will comes down but is quickly reassured when he scents Will and when he lets him out again. The is a familiar routine to Winston, especially as he watches Will top up his water and food bowls. “I’ll be back in a few hours, buddy.” He palms Winston face and gives him a few moments of the ear scratches he loves.

He remembers Hannibal’s note on the fridge when he’d come to and come down stairs. He supposes it’s only polite to repay the courtesy and soothe the doubts. He scrawls a quick one of his own and pins it to the fridge in the exact same spot as Hannibal’s note to him had been. He grabs his cane on the way out and, after a moment, hikes up his pant leg to loosen his brace a bit as well.

Will has been on the road for maybe five minutes when he starts fiddling with the radio. In Virginia and in Maine he’d either had it set to static or to a local news station but Will finds himself flipping through the satellite radio music channels, rolling his eyes at all the classical stations he’s getting before a very familiar guitar line starts. For a moment he’s transported back to the last time he’d heard this song properly. He’d just hit the freeway, he remembers. What little he owned was rattling in the back of his much newer station wagon and he was moving to DC. The song was one of the few songs that he could probably sing in his sleep.

Will is not one to sing along with music on the radio but he does remember singing along to this song. Rather aggressively if he remembers correctly. Probably not the intention of the song at all given the title.

He can’t help it. He doesn’t belt it like he did then but he does join in with Glenn Frey. Loud enough to be just heard over the song itself but not loud or obvious enough that any passing cars would notice. He can’t help but smile as he tries to take the song’s title to heart as feels the tension of the past few days leave him with miles he leaves behind him. 

=====================================================================

If anyone were to have asked Hannibal why he chose to route the route he did he would have said for cautionary purposes and it would have been the truth. Partly. Electing a flight with two stopovers instead of chartering a direct flight came with its own set of risks but Hannibal was well versed in disappearing when he needed to. He took all precautions, of course, but knew he would not be caught. He never would be again.

The next choice had been his actions upon landing in Paris. The easiest of them would have had him at Will’s door almost exactly twenty four hours from departing New Orleans. Instead, he’d drawn it out. Buses over trains for the most part until reaching Petit Ardon and deciding that he could really use a walk. A walk completely by himself and a practically non existent chance of running into anyone. It was one of the reasons he’d bought a property here. 

It’s sunny and just overcast enough so that the heat is not oppressive as he walks. He carries nothing with him but the clothes on his back and the contents of his pockets. He’d disposed of the identity he’d been using once he’d reached France. There was nothing left for him under that name as much as there was nothing left for him under his own. There was Anton Lehner waiting for him in the house up ahead, Hannibal can see the gate now and it feels more like a homecoming than anything ever has.

A homecoming it may be but he will not refer to it as his home. Not yet. Not until and unless Will names it so. He types in the code, knowing full well that Will wouldn’t have bothered changing it no matter his decision and walks his way up the long drive and the hill. It has been some time since he has been here and really looked at the place for a period longer than a moment. As much as he’d prepared for it, and hoped for it, it is another thing entirely to be here now knowing that it could be forever.

The fresh tire tracks are encouraging, they mean Will is well and mobile, but they are also worrying. He does not have a key to the garage but he doesn’t need to open it to know that the car is gone. He steels himself for what he may find when he opens the door. As a courtesy, he knocks first, he is soothed by the sound of a dog barking. If Will had left he would not have left Winston behind. He waits and then knocks again. More barking but no sounds of anyone calling the dog to heel or coming to answer the door. Hannibal finally reaches into his jean pocket and pulls out the house key, a possession he has treasured in his time away and opens the door.

Winston was trained well and this is not the first time Hannibal and Winston have met. He sits patiently while Hannibal takes off his shoes and hangs up the hoodie he’d been wearing in the closet. He has no intention of wearing it again but better in the closet than on the floor. He rewards Winston’s patience with a pat on the head as he enters the house proper. His heart almost bursts at the sight. It is one thing to purchase a house, furnish it, and leave it empty for years. One thing to purchase a house on the hope of it being lived in and quite another to see that is has been lived in and lived in well.

The afghan is on the back of the couch but not as neatly as Hannibal had last seen it. It has been used and reused several times and if he were to smell it he’d smell both Winston and Will. The couches look well used, there’s signs of use on the coffee table, fingerprints on the door knob to the basement and door frames. Probably Will catching himself before falling or swinging himself around to get something.

There are shades of Will here, obvious ones and ones that Will did not bother hiding. There’s a book resting, unfinished, on the dining room table and If he were leaving he would have erased his existence from his place, whether that was cleaning the place down to the last molecule or burning the house to the ground and escaping into the night. He would have left Hannibal nothing to remember him by.

_I don’t want to think about you anymore. Goodbye, Hannibal._

It still stings to hear. Even knowing that it had been a manipulation, even knowing that Will hadn’t fully meant it. There was worse to feel and Hannibal, contrary to his usual open embrace to new experiences, does not want to feel that one. 

He drifts into the kitchen next and finds it has been kept clean. There’s a freshly cleaned plate and mug drying in the sink and judging by the lingering scent of breakfast (coffee and toast with raspberry jam) along with the state of Winston’s food and water dish, he has only missed Will by a handful of hours and, wherever he’s gone, he plans to be back. He knows that without noticing the note pinned to the fridge. He doesn’t read it right away but holds it tight as he moves out of the kitchen.

An inspection upstairs shows even more activity and signs of life. Will’s scent and presence cling to the upstairs like an animal’s scent on territory. He’s gone out and rebought his atrocious aftershave and what has to be discounted shampoo. He’d shaved, and possibly cut his hair, before he’d left and had some consternation about what to wear. Hannibal smiles fondly at the idea of Will carefully looking to hide himself when he already hides himself so well. Has been doing it his whole life.

The bedroom is a little more unkempt; Will has not been sleeping well of late and Hannibal makes a note to apologize for that later. Will has thrown the duvet over top to make it look somewhat presentable but it does little to hide the rumpled sheets. He sits down on the bed, the side of the bed that Will has left conspicuously neater than the other, and finally reads Will’s note.

_Nepanikuokite, aš einu atgal_

It takes Hannibal a moment to parse what is written with what Will likely meant. Hannibal sighs, fondly. Google translate was not to be trusted at the best of times but Hannibal appreciated the intent and the effort. Don’t panic, indeed. He had no intention of doing so. He sits down on the bed, shuts his eyes, and takes a moment to just exist. Quietly and without feeling as if his guard needs to be up. That the authorities were closing in or that there was any reason to worry. 

Hannibal had never worried, never concerned himself if a plan would not work. He was confident in his abilities and knew that he would be successful. If he was caught, he would eventually be free. If he was killed then that was simply the way of things. This time was different. This time there was something to lose that was more important than his freedom. Another person’s life and liberty that needed to be preserved with equal importance as his own. More importance, he amends almost instantly. He could suffer being caged again if he knew Will was free.

Hannibal inhales, holds it, lets himself feel all the nerves and fear and urgency he hadn’t let himself feel. Not since Will had said ‘please.’

Then he lets it go. They are dead. They are alive. They are safe. 

He knows he should not relax himself fully but he’s swinging his legs up on the bed even as he thinks this. He should get up off the bed, he knows. He should go downstairs, do something productive. Take Winston out, make something, do anything at all. He wants to be awake when Will returns, whether that is today or otherwise. 

_For God’s sake, Hannibal, take a fucking rest._

“Language, Will,” he chides as his eyes slip closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) _Pas pour longtemps_ = Not for a long time
> 
> 2) Yet again I've slipped music into a chapter. The song that Will is blasting on the radio is [Take it Easy by The Eagles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfeNhwnO8hw)
> 
> 3) "Nepanikuokite, aš einu atgal" is what Google Translate gave me for "Don't panic, I'm coming back." Just for kicks I ran it through in reverse and did not get the same thing at all. So, I am assuming (as is likely) it is totally wrong. If it so happens to be right, please tell me how to make it wrong. ;)


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY, GUYS! I got a new job and basically everything exploded, things are still exploding, but I'm finally figuring out how to have a life outside of work, I think, and this is getting finished. I promise. Can't say when the next update is coming but I will not leave like a month delay like that again. If you're still reading this, bless your heart.
> 
> Now, on with the show!

Will has never taken a vacation in his life. There had been no thought of one when he was a child and any time he had spent in another city prior to leaving the FBI was strictly work or school related. He and Molly had never even gone on a honeymoon. Molly’s parents had given them money for a weekend getaway of their choice but they’d never actually used it. The Fosters hadn’t been happy but they had refused to take the money back. Will’s pretty sure that it had ended up in Wally’s college fund.

Will supposes he can’t call this a vacation any more than he can any other trip he’s taken but he thinks this feeling of freedom is the reason that people want to take them so much. There is something liberating about standing in a city where no one knows you, where no one can reach you, and where you have no one to answer to but yourself. Especially so in this case since, really, he could stay here as long as he wanted to.

There are some restrictions he places on himself. It feels wrong to enter places like Notre Dame or the Louvre without Hannibal, for example, so he decides not to. He starts with taking one of those open top bus tours and does his best to tune out the tour guide. He sits at the back by himself and just watches. The other tourists have come with at least one friend and are happily chatting and taking pictures and ignore him entirely. That’s just fine by him.

There are a couple of different circuits so he takes them all and then when he runs ou he simply walks. Breaks are fairly frequent, this is the most workout his leg has got since Dolarhyde, but he manages to conserve his resources. It’s his shoulder that is paying the price more than his leg given his heavier reliance on the cane then he has recently. He ends up switching hands fairly often and he wonders if the comfort that provides is more illusion than anything.

Despite how obvious he feels no one pays him one iota of attention. His cane, his limp, his scarred face are completely unworthy of notice. Everyone pays so little attention to anyone else that Will figures that he could probably commit a murder right here in the middle of the seventh arrondissement, in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, and no one would notice. Not that he is planning to test that theory. 

_You worry too much, Will._

In this case Will has to agree. His guard never goes down but he does allow himself to relax somewhat.

He allows himself one tourist experience on his own. He knows that if Hannibal was with him he’d magic up a way to jump the line to ascend the Eiffel Tower but Will does it properly. He manages to book a fortuitous gap in the early evening and waits in line with everyone else. Again, no one marks his presence and he passes the time with a novel he’d picked up earlier in a used bookstore. 

The view is well, well worth the wait. It would look even more gorgeous at night but, again, he finds himself saving some experiences for another visit. People crowd around and take pictures, selfies, and whatnot while Will manages to squeeze up into a corner to lean against the barrier and take in the view on his own. The cane keeps people from crowding him at least.

He smiles at the city below and at the sky above. It’s a clear day with minimal wind and It’s bizarrely comfortable being up this high. He even leans over the railing a bit, not enough to be in any danger but just enough to make a normal person nervous. His pulse barely picks up. Will’s never counted himself as someone particularly afraid of heights but he’d expected to be a little more affected. Maybe throwing himself off a cliff had something to do with that.Even if this height makes the bluff look like a hill. Maybe he’s actually just starting to worry less. 

Someone taps him on the shoulder and he doesn’t even leap out of his skin when it happens. Someone turns waifish, Korean woman who asks him in heavily accented French if he could please take a picture or her and her girlfriend. Will obliges almost happily as he snaps three photos of the two women with arms around each other, and one of them kissing. 

He wonders if the other woman, a pale, fuller figured, redhead who is much shyer in both her demeanor and her French, knows that her girlfriend is going to propose tonight. He holds in every instinct to wish her luck.Instead whispers “Enjoy Paris, cher,” as she brushes by him. She blushes and giggles at his accent as she’s dragged away toward the other side of the crowd.

=====================================================================

Will’s empathy doesn’t bother him until he’s sitting outside at a cafe, eating a light dinner and finishing his book. The cause is a scene a few tables down involving a man about Hannibal’s age screaming furiously at a woman about half that. They come dangerously close to blows before another woman manages to break them apart. They’re speaking too quickly for Will to catch what the issue is but he does catch the instigator subtly shoving the second woman into a passing waiter. The only thing saving the waiter from losing the hot coffees and the woman from wearing them is some quick work by some other customers. No one notices the man slink off. 

Will doesn’t get up during any of this, there’s plenty of help and commotion with adding him to the mix, but he watches that man leave. He memorizes his features along with his voice and his walk. He hadn’t caught the story but he did catch a name. First and last thanks to the first woman, who is apparently his much younger wife. That’s something to go on at least.

He stops himself right there. He had no problem killing Francis Dolarhyde, killing Randall Tier, or killing Garett Jacob Hobbes. He knows that one day he will not have a problem killing a man like Christophe Duller, know that he likely fits Will’s preferred criteria as well as Hannibal’s, but he is not ready for that day to be today. 

Somewhere Will knows that Hannibal is smiling, predatory and pleased. He will wait as long as he needs to; Will knows just as well that Hannibal will never kill alone again. They are pack hunters now. The Chesapeake Ripper is dead. 

_And I killed him, too._

Will finishes his book and leaves it on the table with along with his payment. His leg is rested enough and he’s just about ready to head back but for one final thing. He fingers that final thing in his trouser pocket as he leaves the cafe and _A Movable Feast_ far behind him. 

When Will had woken up in the hospital he hadn’t noticed that his wedding ring was still on him at first. He’d only clued in when he’d banged his hand against the guardrail trying to reach a glass of water some time later. He’d been surprised to see it; he’d expected that Hannibal would have slipped it off at the earliest chance. Will allows that, to be fair, there had been much more pressing things on Hannibal’s mind than what was or was not on Will’s left ring finger. He even can suppose that during the time Hannibal was keeping watch as his bedside he was distracted by other concerns. 

That wasn’t quite true though. Like everything else since Will has woken up, taking the wedding ring on or off was going to be his choice. 

Will had taken it off within the first twenty four hours of being in the house, put on the bedside table just behind the alarm clock and there it had remained until Will had found it in his pocket earlier today. He hadn’t even remembered picking it up, which was odd considering his history with the ring.

He pauses on a bridge crossing the Seine, gets himself well out of the way so no one bothers with him as he looks out at the water. He takes the band out of his pocket and looks at it for what feels like the first time in his life. It is, really, he supposes. 

They’d each chosen their own bands. Molly hadn’t wanted anything fancy or anything attention grabbing. They were also getting married at city hall with Molly’s parents as witnesses and no one else. It was enough that they were getting married so quickly and she was doing it so soon after her first husband’s death. Perhaps that was why Molly had always worn her ring easily. It was as part of her hand as her fingers and nails were and the ring never came off unless she was sleeping or bathing. 

Will had always been uncomfortably aware of his. The weight had always been obvious to him and at times it had felt unbearable. He took it off to cook, he took it off to fish, he took it off to work. If he were to add up the time spent with the ring on versus off he’s certain the latter would come up on top. Not because he regretted his decision to marry Molly but because he never wanted his choice to feel easy or settle on him. He never wanted to get too comfortable. This was a choice that was going to destroy him one way or another but it was the safest choice for everyone else. The ring was a show of his commitment to that decision more than it was a show of his commitment to Molly. To his choice to do good enough, live the life he should, and understand that he had no place in Hannibal Lecter’s presence as long as he wore it. 

And he took it off all the time. No matter how practical the reasons, the fact still remained.

Will clenches the ring tight in his fist. It digs painfully into his palm, He presses his lips against his knuckles. “I’m sorry,” he whispers and he is. Molly didn’t ask for this. Molly did not sign up for this and certainly would not have if Will had been honest with her. 

Molly had never asked questions. Both because he’d asked her to leave it and because she’d asked him in kind to leave the details of her previous marriage alone. Will had been just fine with that. They’d both been through the ringer and both just wanted whatever scrap of happiness they could grab. It was a shame that happiness was something that they could never give each other to keep.

Of course she’d wanted the marriage annulled. He’d almost missed that story, a few stray lines in one of the articles he’d read and not expanded upon. It hadn’t even stung as badly as it should have. He was far from surprised that she was doing and even less so that it was being awarded and awarded very quietly. Will being dead isn’t good enough. This is Molly saying “I don’t want to think about you anymore” and actually meaning it.

He wishes for nothing but the best for her and the best he can do for her is to forget her. 

Will considers letting the ring just slip through his fingers but decides against it. He needs to be able to own the action as much as the rest of his choices. He makes himself pull his right arm back and hurl the thing as hard and as far as he can. If his shoulder had a voice it would be howling but Will grits his teeth and keeps quiet. He will feel this and he will own it.

Someone shouts something in enthusiastic, approving French as it sails through the air. He doesn’t react, he just growls and digs his fingers into his shoulder as he watches it arc through the air and then splash into the Seine. At least he thinks it does; his glasses are in the car and he’s actually managed to throw it pretty far considering his shoulder.

“Goodbye, Molly.” 

=====================================================================

When Hannibal had been arrested he’d been tried and put to to trial almost immediately. While Will had spent an uncomfortable amount of time at the DA’s office with far too many people reliving every millisecond of every interaction and thought he’d ever had with Hannibal only to have it all done again on the witness stand. Once the word ‘guilty’ had been uttered he’d left. Not just left the building but his life. 

****

He’d been packing up house ever since Hannibal had been escorted off his property in handcuffs. He’d only taken Buster and Winston back from his pack, and refused any and all visitors and offers of help. Said offers of help were pretty shallow, anyway. Jack was furious and Alana was preoccupied. 

When he’d left the courthouse his resignation was already sitting in Jack’s inbox, his farmhouse was on the market (with strict instructions as to where and how to deposit the money). His new, shitty, car was already packed and he’d hit the road that second. No one had even stopped him. 

In the year and a half he had spent on his own, moving from place to place, before eventually settling in Maine he’d never fully discarded his identity. He’d moved bank accounts, changed cars, occasionally used a fake name, but otherwise remained Will Graham. He’d made himself difficult to find but not impossible. Jack could have found him if he’d put in the effort. Alana could have done the same. No one had ever sought him out, with the exception of Freddie Lounds appearing not too long after a loyal reader had sent her a copy of Will and Molly’s marriage announcement in the local paper.

The decision to settle had only been made when he’d decided about Molly, otherwise he would have kept moving. It was easier, while he was alone anyway, to keep distracted and keep whatever shred of peace he could while he was driving or while he knew that he could pick up and leave anytime he wanted. 

He has to say though, in all the driving he has done over his life in the act of leaving one life behind for another, this is the most peaceful one. The radio has been off since the beginning and it’s been night for most of the journey. There’s a chill in the air but Will has the windows down anyway. It’s soothing and calming, feeling the wind on his face as he slowly leaves the city, then towns behind him. He flicks the high beams on and listens to the tires crunch through gravel. 

It’s very different, he finds, to be driving to something instead of driving away from something. The former is very preferable. It also helps to know that he won’t have to drive away again, won’t want to, and if he does that he won’t be alone. He can’t help but let out an audible sigh of relief.

That sigh is sucked right back into his body as a quiet gasp as soon as he keys open the gate and drives up the hill. 

There is a light on in his house.

Will has to remind himself to breathe. He reminds his heart to keep beating while he’s at it. He parks the car as normal and tries to make an extra special effort to not make too much noise. It’s already too late for that, he knows. Hannibal’s senses are not to be trifled with. He grasps his cane tightly, locks the garage door, and just stands there staring at the front door. He’s been waiting forever for this and yet he is terrified to go inside. This is, somehow, worse than approaching Hannibal’s house that bloody night in Baltimore.

Will limps heavily away from the house until the ground begins to slope down. He shuts his eyes as he turns back. 

He counts to ten, he inhales. 

He counts to five, he exhales. 

He thinks about Hannibal arriving here. Thinks about Hannibal’s own nerves, because he does have them, and his moment of relief of realising that Will could not be gone if Winston was still here. Thinks about Hannibal knowing that he’s here, that he’s coming, that even now there is still the chance that Will could walk away. 

He thinks about himself. About the decisions he’s made. Here, in Paris, in Maine, in Maryland, in Virginia. In Louisiana even. All of the decisions that led him here. There could have been fewer detours and wrong turns perhaps but this was always the final destination. Hannibal had been trying to get him to understand this for years. 

Will opens his eyes and smiles softly, knowingly, at this little house. The wind kicks up and pushes him forward a little bit. He doesn’t need the extra encouragement. Ignoring the painful twinge in his leg, he straightens himself and walks as independently as possible to the front door. He’s a little unsteady and has to pause on the front stoop for breath as much as he has to rummage for his keys. The door opens easily and with an almost unholy creak. 

Neither Winston nor Hannibal greets him. He locks the door quietly behind him and carefully makes his way to the kitchen, where one of the lights is on. It looks untouched, Will’s dishes from this morning are even still there. Will bolts the back kitchen door and shuts the light off. His leg throbs with every step up the stairs, even more so given the effort Will is putting into not making a sound. 

The hall light is on, as is the light in the master bedroom. He flicks the hall light off without a thought and walks carefully to the master bedroom. The door is wide open. Will takes a moment to gather himself, grips the cane until his knuckles go white and steps in. What he sees is something he is positive no one else ever has. 

Hannibal Lecter is passed out on the side of the bed that Will has left untouched. He’s still fully dressed in ratty jeans and a threadbare flannel button down, his chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of the sleep of the profoundly exhausted. A book, barely begun, is open on his chest and being held down by one hand while the other is hanging off the edge of the bed. He is snoring ever so slightly.

Here lies Hannibal Lecter, terrifying devil that he is, felled by exhaustion and John Steinbeck.

Winston is curled up on the floor within licking distance of Hannibal’s dangling hand. He’s woken up and looks up inquisitively at Will and then back at Hannibal’s hand. Will shakes his head, mouths ‘no’, and Winston goes back to sleep. He really should wake him, he knows, Hannibal will want to see him and was certainly not intending to be asleep when he got back but Will is hard pressed to do it. This is certainly the best sleep he’s had in weeks.

There’s a bit of hair dangling in Hannibal’s left eye that Will finds himself struggling not to brush aside. He instead slowly approaches, cane abandoned against the dresser now, and slowly pulls the book out from under Hannibal’s hand. If Hannibal is faking sleep he is doing an amazing job. His breathing doesn’t even change. 

Will has to know for sure. “Hannibal?” he calls somewhere between normal volume and a whisper. No reaction. 

****

“Hannibal!” This time just slightly louder, just enough to snap him out it if he was really paying attention. Will flips off the lamp. Moonlight from the sliding door fills the room. Still no reaction. He’s really asleep, then.

Will swallows down his own yawn. He picks up his cane again and makes his way to the chair where he sits and strips to his underwear. His pyjamas are still lying on the floor where he tossed them but fortunately he’s able to grab them without getting out of the chair thanks to the cane. Both shirt and pants are put on with some difficulty. Both shoulders have had it with being abused so badly and his leg protests the removal of the brace but Will knows leaving it on while he sleeps will just be worse. He rises with even more difficulty and any thought of heading to sleep in the other room is chased away by the fact that there’s a bed directly in front of him. Jack Crawford could be his bedmate and he’d still take it at this point.

Or maybe not, he amends with a grimace as he carefully limps over. He leans his cane in it’s usual spot against the nightstand and carefully swings himself into bed. 

Hannibal has fallen asleep on top of the covers but not the duvet. It’s bunched up at the foot of Will’s half of the bed as if it were in the way. Will happily grabs that and wraps himself up in it like a cocoon. He really should shut the door but he’s not getting up to do it now. 

As he gets comfortable, Hannibal snores softly again but does not move. Will stares at him through the darkness for sometime before deciding, experimentally, to wrap his hand around Hannibal’s bicep. There is no reaction and Will just leaves his hand there; it’s as much for himself as it is for Hannibal. 

_How are you not waking up?_ Will wonders, baffled. _I’d always thought you the type to wake up at the slightest hint of an intruder._

_You are not an intruder_. Will is unsure whether that’s Hannibal’s thought or his own. It’s likely both, he decides, and lets the rest of the room fade away. 


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now the moment you've all been waiting for ;)
> 
>  
> 
> (Seriously though thanks for hanging on this long and putting up with me and my spotty update schedules. You guys are the best.)

Hannibal had first met Winston at Will’s house. It had been early in their aquaintance, Will had been out of state, and Hannibal had offered to feed his dogs before Will had drummed up the courage to ask him. 

“It’s out of your way,” Will had reminded him, almost panicked. He wasn’t in a position to appreciate it then but Will had been terrified, stunned and terrified in his amazement, that someone was actually offering to watch his dogs before he’d even thought about it. 

At the time Hannibal had been curious, told him it was no trouble, and asked him about the dogs’ schedule and what they liked to eat. Will had barely spoken the rest of the time and had required a fair amount of gentle reminders that Hannibal was happy to do it for him. That it was something friends did for one another. Hannibal remembers being shocked to find that he’d meant it. 

Winston had just been one of the pack on Hannibal’s visit, though to be fair Hannibal had been busy with other things at Will’s home. He remembers one of the dogs keeping a close eye on him but even now he couldn’t say for sure whether or not it was Winston. It was likely the case, however. 

Winston had made a real impression on Hannibal while he and the rest of the pack had been staying with Alana during Will’s incarceration. Will trained his dogs well and was indulgent to a very firm point with them. Alana, while only slightly less strict with her own animal, was overcompensating for what she felt was her role in Will’s decline by spoiling them to the point where Hannibal found himself honestly questioning just how appreciative Will would be after Hannibal got him out. He hadn’t been impressed at all, Hannibal knew, but it hadn’t been as difficult as it could have been to set them right. Or so Will had told him.

Winston was the only one of the pack who didn’t immediately take to the change in residence. While the rest of the pack was soon comfortable and could easily be mistaken as Alana’s own pack, Winston kept himself apart and aloof. He didn’t acknowledge Alana unless she brought food and would eventually follow an order but only once he was good and ready to. Hannibal had found himself having to walk the beasts with Alana if only to make sure Winston would leave the house.

That was the trick, of course. Whenever Hannibal was in the house, Winston would not leave him be. He would not leave Alana and him alone for an instant. If a door was shut to him he would keep guard outside of it, the slightest questionable noise causing Winston to bark and scratch until Alana and Hannibal both appeared with no signs of foul play. Previous to this, Hannibal doesn’t recollect Winston ever making a noise. 

He was a very intelligent and well trained animal and it seemed the dog could empathize to a certain degree with Will. He knew something was wrong and he knew who to blame for it. This was further proven when Winston seemed to suddenly warm up to him shortly before Hannibal was fully aware of the decision he’d made about getting Will out. When Will was back and Hannibal found himself at Will’s house a handful of times before his flight to Europe, Winston had almost appeared to be smitten with him. He’d often stand or sit by Hannibal where Will would not, much to the latter’s apparent bafflement.

That same sort of smitten look was what greeted him when he opened his eyes. He blinked once to clear his vision and the mutt leaned in to bump his nose against Hannibal’s. He fought the urge to pull back and wipe his nose off. He has awakened in stranger circumstances and this certain situation may end up being a routine one. He stretches an arm out and places it on the dog’s head. He gives him an experimental pat. 

Winston expresses gratitude by bopping him on the nose again and then trotting off. This time Hannibal does wipe his face into his sleeve but as his nose reaches the crook of his arm he smells something else. He sniffs again but can’t quite place it. Or, more accurately, he won’t let himself place it.

As he moves from his side to sitting up he notices that the duvet that he’d left at the foot of the bed when last he was awake is in a pile on the empty side of the bed beside him. He tentatively grabs at it and brings it to his nose. The aroma of a certain cheap and atrocious aftershave paired with bargain bin shampoo fills his nostrils. It is entirely uncomplimentary and offensive to anyone with a functioning sense of smell; it is the best thing he has smelled in recent memory. 

He smiles. Will has returned and not only that he’d spent the night here. With him. He could have slept elsewhere, Hannibal’s certain that if he had been in any way opposed he’d have dragged himself to the other bedroom no matter how bad his leg hurt but he hadn’t. He’d come back and was here now. 

Or at least he was. He can’t see Will on the balcony and the only evidence of Will in the room at all aside from the duvet are the clothes he must have been wearing yesterday strung over the wingback chair on the other side of the room.

Winston’s tail thuds against the doorframe in an almost annoyingly exact cadence. Hannibal and him stare at each across the room until Winston loses interests and heads down the hall and Hannibal hears him go down the stairs. The appropriate thing to do would be to follow him but Hannibal stalls anyway. He thinks about changing, he has slept and travelled in these clothes after all, but decides against it. He highly doubts Will has changed or has been awake much longer than Hannibal himself has.

His feet are barely on the floor and he is barely down in the hallway when he hears Winston yip in an effort to grab his attention. Or at least he assumes it’s his attention until he realises that Winston is already on the ground floor. The yip is repeated, a door is closed, and a rapid _tap thump_ follows.

The first thing he hears from Will Graham’s mouth in what feels like an eternity isn’t even a full sentence. It is only one word and a noise ( _hsst, hey!_ ) whispered harshly but they ring like church bells in Hannibal’s head. Two more words follow ( _come on!_ ) and then Hannibal hears them walking away toward the kitchen, Winston’s nails clicking across the floor and moving much faster than Will’s more measured and calculated _tap thump_. He’d must have overworked himself yesterday.

Hannibal doesn’t need to think about keeping quiet in order to be so but he puts special effort into it now. He doesn’t want Will to see him one moment before he wants him to. An equal part of him wants Will to realise his presence before Hannibal lets him. To feel him in the room the moment he breathes the same air as him. 

Will is not so good as that and Hannibal finds himself both pleased and displeased that Will’s back is to him. He is wearing rumpled plaid pyjamas pants, an equally rumpled white t-shirt, an uneven haircut, and is currently in the midst of breakfast preparation. A flame leaps from the stove top, another word hisses out of Will’s mouth ( _shit!_ ) and Hannibal places that sound reverently with the other noises in the chamber he will commit to this day. Will extinguishes the flame and then reaches over with his cane to yank the back door fully open. Winston bolts out like a shot and Hannibal can almost hear Will roll his eyes as he flips the fan on in the hood.

Hannibal is trying to scent the air, to put together what Will is making them for what he is obviously hoping will be their first meal together in their new life, but he can’t stop watching Will. It is impossible to reconcile that Will is here in front of him and has chosen this as much as it is still, and will be for some time, impossible to reconcile that Will is alive and whole. Will is stiff in his right shoulder and his mobility is obviously limited, how much of that is due to exertion and how much of that is Will’s new normal is difficult to tell from this distance. The shoulder will never be the same but Hannibal knows that Will is far from willing to settle. 

Will takes a peek at what’s in the frying pan, shakes his head and then scrapes it into the garbage. As he does so Hannibal gets a look at Will’s scarred face. Again, it’s hard to base an opinion at this distance but his stitches did their job well and so did Will in maintaining it; the scar is pink but heading rapidly to white. It will be noticeable but not strikingly so. 

On the kitchen island behind him are two table settings. Casual ones, just the plates and mugs and utensils. Will has, predictably, made no attempt at making this appear to look like something Hannibal would have put together. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

There are scrambled eggs sitting, covered, on the table along with some freshly made pancakes, maple syrup, and a bowl of grapes. All things Hannibal should have noticed first but he can’t find in himself to be bothered by it. Not today, not right now.

Will is about to attempt a second round with the bacon, his hand reaching for more strips when it freezes in mid reach. He doesn’t move for several moments. Hannibal does not breathe either. Will’s hand moves after an age and slowly turns the burner off.

Hannibal tries to find the voice to speak but fails as he watches a previously unnoticed tension leave Will’s shoulders. He hears Will sigh.

And then Will turns.

There is a difference of light years, Hannibal finds, between Will’s eyes being afire with delirium and fever and being bright with lucidity, intelligence, and pure relief at the sight of him. A hunger that has finally been sated; an expression that Hannibal knows is mirrored in his own. There is joy in Will’s eyes as well. There is in his as well as they look each other over, reconciling and marking the differences between now and the last time they saw each other. 

When Will flicks his eyes to Hannibal’s midsection Hannibal rolls up his shirt to display the entrance wound before fully realising it. “No harm done,” he assures him. “Simply a flesh wound.” He’d played it up for Dollarhyde a little bit but not too much. He’d thought Will had known even then. 

Will nods in vague recognition. “I’d thought so,” he agrees. “At least I think I did but I…” he trails off.

Hannibal nods. “But you couldn’t quite remember.” He’s not surprised and is very curious about how much Will does remember. “I am sorry.”

Will blinks. “That’s not your fault.” He doesn’t say ‘not this time’ and for that Hannibal is grateful. 

Hannibal is studying his face now, noting the facial hair already starting to grow back from yesterday’s shave, but is focusing on his eyes and his scar. He reaches his hand out. “May I?”

Will nods and gathers himself to limp a few steps toward Hannibal before he has to stop. The cane has been long forgotten by the stove and Hannibal makes up the distance between them quickly. He reaches out a hand to Will’s side to steady him as his leg wobbles while his other hand cups Will’s face. He leans into the touch and Hannibal allows his fingers the luxury of carressing Will’s skin. 

Before either of them can place too much thought on that gesture he begins his investigation of the scar. “Open your mouth,” he requests, softly. Will obliges and Hannibal uses the light in the room as best he can to see the work on the inside of Will’s mouth. “Dissolved?” he asks in reference to the absent inside stitches.

“Yes. Last week.” Will tugs his t-shirt neck down enough for Hannibal to get as good a look at his shoulder as he can. Hannibal shuts his eyes against the initial memory of the infection ridden wound, of how tenacious it was in persisting despite all of his attempts to expel it. Of how it very nearly cost him Will. 

“You did.” Will reminds him quietly as he wraps his fingers around Hannibal’s wrist, guiding his hand from his cheek to his shoulder. “It’s fine now. Open your eyes.” 

Of course Will is right, Hannibal finds as he does what he’s told. The stitches are holding and can probably be removed in the next day or two. The wound is still red and it will scar wonderfully but it is far from what it was and what it had initially begun to turn into. Feeling Will’s skin at normal temperature is something that he’d also thought he’d never feel again. He somehow manages to keep his fingers from carressing it, or from digging into Will’s shoulder. 

“I’m alright,” Will tells him, his hands how on Hannibal’s biceps. “And I’m all here.” One of Will’s hands leaves its position quickly to slip up the back of Hannibal’s shirt and run across the insensate starburst of the bullet’s exit wound. “And so are you.”

Hannibal remembers the news coverage, what Will had to have seen and the reason he had sent Chiyoh here in the first place. “It had to be done,” he doesn’t apologise. “But I regret the effect it had on you.”

Will snorts. “That’s a first.”

Hannibal shakes his head. “Not a first,” he corrects. “But not an often occurring sentiment.” He can name every single one and perhaps later he will. There will be no secrets between them now, no games, not where they aren’t on the same side and working together. 

The hand on Hannibal’s back flattens and Will’s other arm comes around Hannibal’s neck as Will pulls him close in like he had on the cliff. He tucks himself into Hannibal’s chest and squeezes as tight as he possibly can despite what must be screaming protest in his shoulder. 

Hannibal matches him as he wraps both his arms around Will’s back and presses him further into his chest, one hand finding it’s way to Will’s head and cradling the back of it. Will’s breathing barely changes and he makes no noise of complaint. Encouraged, Hannibal buries his face into Will’s hair, inhaling the glorious smell of that disgusting shampoo, before finally resting his cheek on top of Will’s head. He misses Will’s curls but they’d be back soon enough, and he’d take Will bald if that was the only way he could have him in his arms like this again. He shuts his eyes and breathes, timing his breaths with Will’s as they stand together, falling off of a different precipice now and into a much smoother landing. 

He chances a kiss on the top of Will’s head, the first kiss he’s given him while he’s been awake. Will squeezes tighter in response, hissing as he does so. 

“Will,” Hannibal starts.

“Don’t,” Will snaps but with perhaps a little less bite. “Just...give us a moment.”

Hannibal nods. “Very well.” Will’s grip does not loosen and Hannibal doesn’t find it stifling or uncomfortable even past the point where it should.

It is some time before Will sees fit to let them go, physically anyway. They both know now, beyond any shadow of doubt, that neither of them will ever be free of the other again. 

And neither of them would choose to be.

**Author's Note:**

> 1) I'm hoping to update this weekly. It's about two or three chapters from being done but it will be completed!
> 
> 2) This is my first fic in this fandom and my first fic in about two years. Please be gentle with me ;)


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